


Coward's Counsel

by JBarts (the_physicist)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post-CA:TWS, WIP, jewish!bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 24,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3730819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_physicist/pseuds/JBarts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The visit to the Smithsonian threw up more questions than it answered. </p><p>  <i>"IS IT WRONG TO USE NAME OF DEAD PERSON?" the asset typed. In reply the internet search engine spewed out pages and pages of results. He clicked through several links about 'identity theft' and eventually added the string of text "EVEN IF YOU'RE THE DEAD PERSON?" to his question in the search field. That, however, only led to a slew of articles on the topic of 'debt avoidance'.</i> </p><p>Bucky doesn't remember anything that happened before he was Hydra and was sent to kill Captain America, but he needs to know whether he's on Hydra's or Captain America's side!</p><p>  <i>The museum had made it clear that he hadn't always fought for Hydra. He'd fought against them in the past. </i></p><p>  <i>Unless he'd been a double agent for Hydra. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"IS IT WRONG TO USE NAME OF DEAD PERSON?" the asset typed. In reply the internet search engine spewed out pages and pages of results. He clicked through several links about 'identity theft' and eventually added the string of text "EVEN IF YOU'RE THE DEAD PERSON?" to his question in the search field. That, however, only led to a slew of articles on the topic of 'debt avoidance'.

The asset scowled at the screen. He closed the browser. "Bucky Barnes" it was then. Wasn't like he was trying to avoid debt, after all. If he had any debts, he didn't remember. Which was the crux of the whole problem of course.

He left the Internet cafe and headed towards the hotel he was staying at — paid for with money he'd taken from a Hydra safe house he'd raided. There'd been laptops and phones in the house, too, but he'd decided that the risk of owning anything that was GPS enabled or could connect to the internet was too high.

The sky was turning dark and up ahead a lit-up convenience store sign seemed all the brighter for it.

His stomach rumbled. He'd bought some candy when he'd visited the Smithsonian earlier in the day, but he didn't know when he'd last eaten before that, so he tugged his baseball cap down to cover more of his face and entered the store. 

Milk, bread, cheese, and pre-sliced ham. The packet said it was ham anyway. In the last aisle, next to the check-out desk were newspapers and magazines. A color photo of Captain America gracing the front page of one of the glossy magazines caught his eye. A newspaper the shelf below showed a grainy photo of a man with a mask, a metal arm, and an M4A1 Carbine running between some cars.

He frowned and changed his trajectory, unable to tear his eyes away from the front page story. As he stared at it longer, he felt his heart rate increasing and the skin across his face pull tight. _No, that can't be right,_ he thought viciously and tore a copy of the paper from the stand. 

The text stated that the fight had taken place only a day before he first remembered... anything. 

"Hey, you gonna buy that?" someone asked. 

"Yeah."

He paid and stalked back to the hotel just as it started raining. His stomach was churning and not due to a lack of food. By the time he reached the hotel it was pouring down and his clothes were soaked through, but he'd tucked the newspaper under his coat to keep it dry. 

As soon as he was in his room he stripped down to his underwear and hung his damp clothes over the radiators to dry. He made himself cheese and ham sandwiches, but by the time he was preparing his third one his hands were shaking and he no longer felt hungry. With a sigh he abandoned the food on the dresser and instead spread the newspaper out on the bed. 

The man in the picture was wearing the same exact gear he'd worn, the same mask. He even had long dark hair and a red star on his arm. It had to be him.

His heart rate sped up again and he felt his throat going dry. It had been disorientating enough when he'd gone to the museum and discovered an entire life he'd apparently led as "Bucky Barnes" — but that had all happened over half a century ago. _This_... this was last week he didn't remember! 

He ran his fingers through his hair and then purposefully rubbed his left shoulder, exactly where the star was. He took a deep and steadying breath. What the hell had happened? How had he lost his memories and why hadn't it bothered him when he'd started out on his mission to kill Captain America? Why hadn't he told any of the other Hydra agents that he'd lost his memories? 

The paper crinkled and rustled as he rifled through it, searching for more images of himself, scanning the text for mentions of his life that he couldn't recall. Maybe he'd gotten hurt during that fight on the freeway, a head injury or something? There was no mention in the article that he'd been hurt.

He balled up the pages and threw them onto the floor. This was some sort of war, he knew, and he'd been fighting on Hydra's side. He was Hydra, there was no doubt about that. 

But... the museum had made it clear that he hadn't always fought for Hydra. He'd fought against them in the past. 

Unless he'd been a double agent for Hydra. 

He flopped down onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The star on his arm was Soviet, wasn't it? He... yes, he spoke Russian fluently. The Communists were neither on Captain America's nor Hydra's side. 

Who the _hell_ was he? What kind of a man fought for three opposing factions?

"Bucky Barnes," he mouthed. 

One of the few things he knew for sure was that he'd tried to kill Captain America for Hydra... and that he'd had a flash-memory on the Helicarrier that had stopped him from killing his target. He had known Captain America before the serum. 

He mulled over all the information he had. The articles on how to run away from your debt came to mind. Maybe he'd decided to fake his own death in order to work for Hydra so Captain America wouldn't come after him? The guy had clearly been confused and upset at seeing his childhood friend fighting for Hydra.

Maybe he'd wanted to defect to the Soviets?

He turned around and burrowed his head into the pillows. It was pointless, he simply didn't have enough information.

Sleep didn't want to come, so he continued to breathe into the pillow for another hour, images of himself fighting on a freeway swirling in his mind. Why couldn't he remember that? It was... frustrating. Frustrating beyond belief. He resisted the urge to tear the pillow in two. By the time the dawn light started to filter in through the curtains he'd lain awake for seven hours despite his best efforts to seek the blackness of sleep. Eating the sandwiches hadn't helped and now tears of anger and exhaustion pricked the corners of his eyes. He had to know whether he was on Captain America's side or Hydra's. He needed _more information._

Bucky launched himself off the bed and grabbed his clothes.


	2. Chapter 2

_On Thursday, 23 November 1943, Barnes and Jones, along with four British-trained Polish resistance fighters ambushed Schmidt's black re-engineered Mercedes-Benz at the top of Brzozowa street in Krakow. 67_

Bucky's eyes were dry and his eyelids felt leaden, and he knew he had to stop reading soon and get some rest — when had he last slept? — but he couldn't stop here, he had to know what happened next! He thumbed through 'til the end of the book, only 234 pages to go! Who was he kidding? That was a lot. He tried to tell himself that he already knew Schmidt wouldn't be killed, and neither would he or Jones.

He turned the page anyway.

_"So, normally [Rogers would] check on each of us in turn," Dugan later said of the morning before the ambush, "just a quick chat, nothing serious, no inspiring words."_

Rogers sounded like a good leader, Bucky thought, not for the first time. Reckless, yes, but he'd clearly cared about his men. A small knot was forming in his throat, which he tried to ignore. Rogers had cared about Bucky — still did, that much was clear. 

He put the library book into the top drawer of his bedside table, and opened his notebook. He tried to remember if he'd read anything important tonight. His thoughts were too hazy to focus on anything in particular, though, and he found himself leafing back through the notebook until he got to his favorite pages. On those two pages he'd scrawled down every quoted line in a book that originated from letters he'd written during the war. There weren't many. The first few letters he'd written home had apparently been thrown away by the censors, because he'd written them in Yiddish. No one had told him only English letters got through. Many of his letters had gone to Steve's address in Brooklyn — which some new tenant had been living in, who'd just put them in the garbage most likely. Then, when he'd finally been told to write in home in English, he'd somehow managed to get most of his letters cut up with scissors by the censors, because apparently he'd written too much about the war itself. But, even so, some of small portion of what he'd written had survived and made it into in the history books. 

_\- The snow comes up to my knees, and Steve isn't sick. I know he won't get sick, but I can't help it. It feels wrong watching him trek through snow, getting his clothes wet and cold._

_\- Dear Becca, thank you for the chocolate! And for the socks you knitted._

_\- Don't any of you pay attention to what they say about Steve in the papers! He still snores and still has a big mouth. He talked back to a general yesterday, you should have seen the general's face, it was redder than a tomato!_

They didn't quote any of his letters in full, but he liked to image what he might have written about.

***

"So," Sam said as they left the sunny cemetery, "what now?"

Steve tucked the slim KGB file under his arm. "First Wikipedia, then the library. Seems I need to read up on Cold War history. Might be good to narrow down how many books I'm gonna have to read."

Sam cleared his throat. " _You're_ gonna have to read? I think you mean _we_. I got a feeling all those James Bond films won't be enough, I'll be reading up on that stuff too." 

Steve glanced over his shoulder at him and smiled. 

It was a good look on him, Sam thought. Guy had grown restless waiting around —finally being able to look for Barnes had put a renewed spring in his step.

It was a quick journey back to Sam's and so, only an hour later, they were both sitting around Sam's kitchen table, each of them on the internet, reading through various articles. Between them, the KGB file. They'd each read it once, but neither of them had wanted to pick it up a second time. It was there, though, in case they needed it.

"I think I found something," Sam said, thrusting his tablet towards Steve. 

"Romania?" 

"The Socialist Republic of Romania to be exact," Sam replied. "Look at that section — the regime had tens of thousands of people killed, but those dozen or so prison experiment deaths are the only ones mentioned in detail. Man, those must've been brutal to warrant a special mention."

It wasn't a long section of text, and Sam studied Steve's face as he read it, and presumably, reread the lines that had caught Sam's attention the most. _Tens of people died in this ‘experiment’, but its aim was not to kill the people, but to ‘reeducate’ them. Some of those who were thus ‘reeducated’ later became torturers themselves._

"I think," Sam said, when Steve finally looked up, "it's a possibility, that's all. Romania was occupied by the Soviets after the war until 1958."

Steve sighed and put the tablet down, his eyes were focused on something on the far side of the kitchen. Eventually he nodded. "Romania was an Axis member, served as a base for German military operations against the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia. I wasn't aware of Hydra having a base there, but we were busy taking out their weapons' factories, not their research labs."

"Yeah, so if Hydra found Barnes, they might have taken him to a base in Romania. And then Hydra lost him to the Soviets. Or Hydra infiltrated the KGB the same way they did SHIELD. Well, maybe." Sam let out a huff. They'd only been searching for an hour. There were probably hundreds of scenarios they'd have to look into. 

"I'll make a note to look for any books mentioning those experiments," Steve said grimly, already reaching for his notebook. He flipped past the page of 'things to catch up on' and started a new one.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky ran his fingers reverently over the book. This one was brand new. And it was his, he'd bought it. It had been published only two months ago, and Bucky wondered if it might contain more first-hand accounts than the old library books he'd been reading had. After all, this one had been written after Captain America had been found in the arctic ice. Bucky had a second reason for buying the book - Hydra agents were making it increasingly difficult for him to access any libraries in D.C. . So far none of them had approached him, but he wasn't happy being watched. 

It was a thick, heavy hard-back. He was confident he hadn't wasted money buying it - by now he'd read several dozen books on Bucky Barnes and knew which authors he liked. The book in front of him was written by his favorite historian, Beth Curry. 

He flicked through the pages, searching for photos. _Seen that one before. Oh, this one's a better quality scan of that one from Venk's book._ His eyes lingered on one he hadn't seen before. It was a photo of him and Steve playing baseball as kids. Quickly he checked the date - ah yes, 1936, that made sense. Steve had come down with severe bronchitis in the winter of '36, but that summer had been one of his best health-wise (according to Engelhart Harding). 

Steve's shirt looked too big for him, but his trousers looked too short. He had a small frown on his face and Bucky was struck by how remarkably similar the expression was to that of the adult version, serum and all. He touched his finger to the page, gently, and couldn't help the rush of affection tugging up the corners of his lips. Steve had been one hell of a cute kid. One who, admittedly, probably would have wrestled him to the ground if he'd ever told him that to his face back then. He wondered if that might have happened. He could picture if perfectly in his mind, but that was all, not a single memory had returned, despite all the books he'd devoured on the topic. Some early mornings, woken by the sun from his dreams, he thought he remembered - but it was only his imagination, only things that he had read about the night before. 

His eyes strayed from the photo to the text on the opposite page. 

_Inseparable on both playground and battlefield—_

He stared at the line, read it again, stared at it some more. His heart was suddenly in his throat and he closed the book. Bucky found all he could do for a full minute was stare at his bedside table lamp's reflection on the book's glossy dust cover. 

That line was similar or maybe even the same as one he'd read at the Smithsonian. The text in the exhibit had probably come from an unpublished version of the book. 

Something inside him twisted and he shoved the book away from him. 

It was... everything he'd learnt in the last couple of weeks, had it all been pointless? The Smithsonian exhibit had been nostalgic and celebratory in tone. Perfect propaganda. Some truth to it all, no doubt, but it wasn't the real thing. Because why would you tarnish a war-hero's reputation by telling the truth about his involvement with Hydra?

All this research, and all he'd found were few quotes from letters that he'd written to his family, and none of them were particularly relevant in answering the question of whether he'd been working for Hydra all along or not. Because of course he wouldn't have told his family, his _Jewish_ family, that he was a goddamned traitor and a Nazi agent. 

A knot formed in his throat. Maybe it was best if he never remembered, then he could pretend none of it had ever happened. Bucky Barnes had died a hero. 

He clenched his fists. The stories had been intoxicating, that's what they'd been... and... and he had to stop now. He could get lost in those stories forever, had gotten himself addicted to them.

But the historians didn't know the truth, he knew that. 

His mattress felt too soft, his sheets too smooth, and his comforter far too warm that night.

***

Number withheld. Steve picked up the phone and before he could even say his name the person on the other end of the line started talking. "Brock Rumlow survived and is going after the Winter Soldier. Who's apparently been sleeping in nice hotels in D.C. all this time."

Steve sucked in a sharp breath. He moved away from the large window in Sam's lounge and towards the back bedroom. 

"He's here? Where exactly?" Steve asked, voice low. 

When Natasha didn't answer he check if the call was still active. It was. 

"Natasha?" 

"I've got to go. Steve, he's been reading every library book on Bucky Barnes and the Howling Commandos he could get his hands on. That's all I've got." 

"Wait, Nat! Where are you?" 

She'd already hung up though. 

"Steve? You okay in there? Something happen?" Sam was standing just outside the room with a worried look on his face. 

"Nat called. Sam, he's here in D.C. and... he knows he's Bucky Barnes."

***

Bucky didn't have many options, he was in the Smithsonian, and he was surrounded by Hydra agents, who were drawing their circle tighter by the second. He could forge a path through their bodies with ease, but judging by how their commander had positioned them they were clearly counting on Bucky wanting to keep them alive.

And if Bucky hadn't lost his memories, maybe that would have been a safe tactic - after all, you didn't go shooting your own people - but if this had been his team, if they'd been his friends, well... he didn't remember. And he'd been reading up on history, he knew what Hydra stood for. 

He strode out of the shadows and on through a lit-up section of the museum, a wide open space between two large galleries. Once he crossed back into the shadows on the other side he stopped and counted to five under his breath. The squeaky sound of rubber against flooring. He spun round, rushed towards one of the Hydra agents, and slammed him into a wall with his left arm. He collapsed in a heap on the floor. 

Bucky sensed another agent up ahead. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and drew a blade. 

A man with a newly scarred face sauntered up to him. 

He forced himself to relax his muscles and lean back casually against the wall, right next to the Hydra agent he'd felled. Whoever this guy was, Bucky knew not to underestimate him. This had to be the guy who'd cut off Bucky's access to D.C.'s libraries. 

"You've lost your memories," the Hydra agent said, smiling, hands stretched out in front, so Bucky could see he wasn't carrying any weapons in them. "And you've worked out you used to be Barnes. How am I doing so far?" 

"Used to be? Who am I now then?" 

"Hydra's fist. Our best asset." 

He felt an involuntary shiver run down the back of his spine. Asset. The man wasn't lying, he remembered thinking of himself as the Asset before he took on the name of Bucky Barnes. 

"Who are you?" Bucky asked eventually. 

"Commander Brock Rumlow. We work together." Rumlow grinned.


	4. Chapter 4

Rumlow hadn't looked confused or upset in any way when Bucky had asked him who he was. 

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "What do you know about my memory loss?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" Rumlow shot back.

"I remember the mission to take out Captain America."

"I was there during that mission briefing."

Bucky tried to think back, and he did remember the briefing, but it was foggy, only the information he'd received — and it had been a lot of information — stood out crystal clear in his memory. Maybe Rumlow had been there, he couldn't say for certain.

Bucky shook his head at him.

"I'm a friend," Rumlow said. 

Bucky barked out a sharp, humorless laugh. "I don't have time for this," he said as he hurled himself at the Hydra commander, slamming him into the closest wall. He kept him pinned in place there with the brute strength of his metal arm. 

_Click, click, click_. Around him guns were being aimed directly at him. 

No one shot at him, which didn't surprise Bucky — if they'd wanted him dead, they would have shot him long ago. Apparently he was more valuable to Hydra than Rumlow was. He wondered how the other man felt about that, but if it bothered him, he didn't let it show. 

Bucky smirked at Rumlow. "You know, I can tell guns apart simply by the sound they make when cocked. I didn't know my own name, but don't you dare underestimate me."

"You don't wanna kill me. I can help you. I've got the answers you're looking for," Rumlow said; the line of his jaw radiated tension, but his tone was business-like. 

Bucky considered the offer. He didn't have to trust Rumlow's words.

"How did I lose my memories?"

Brock's breathing was slightly labored, but he was staying remarkably calm otherwise. The grin was back on his face. "You asked for them to be erased."

"Why the hell would I do that?" Bucky growled and shoved him against the wall again.

"Did the history books tell you how Bucky died?"

Bucky held his breath. They didn't and Rumlow knew it.

"He fell from a train in the Alps on a mission with Captain America. If you don't believe me, you can ask Cap, he'll tell you the same thing."

Bucky felt sick to his stomach. "Why are you telling me this? What has it got to do with me wanting my memories gone?"

"He didn't even look for you. None of them did. That's the reward you got for being his partner. Left to rot at the bottom of a ravine, your left arm mangled."

Bucky let Rumlow go and staggered away from him. He wanted to shout back that Steve would never abandon him. Not if he was the Steve of the history books, at least, a quiet voice in his mind supplied. Those books and their portrayal of Steve (and himself) were not to be trusted. He swallowed past a knot in his throat. History was told by the victors as they always liked to say. Of course history had to remember Steve Rogers as someone who was just fucking perfect — because he was an American hero. The perfect soldier.

Bucky wasn't sure he could keep his food down. 

"So then I joined Hydra?" he managed to ask through the nausea. It was a reason, and... but if that had been his reason...

In that moment he realized that it didn't matter — whatever his reasons might have been, whatever kind of treachery Bucky Barnes had committed, he didn't have to be that person. Maybe that was why he'd asked for his memories to be wiped: so he could forget. Maybe Steve had left him to die, maybe he had been betrayed by everyone he'd cared about... but that was no goddamned reason to become a Nazi. Maybe there had been nothing good left in Bucky Barnes — or the Asset, as he'd called himself — towards the end... it was possible he simply hadn't wanted his memories of Steve to interfere with finally killing him.

Rumlow stood in front of him, smirking; his arms were folded across his chest in such a self-satisfied way that it made Bucky snarl. 

"No!" Bucky shouted. 

He didn't have to be a Hydra agent. Rumlow was grinning as if he'd struck gold, but he was misinterpreting Bucky's anger and Bucky knew he had to use that to his advantage. He still had about ten guns trained on him. He could get out of here alive, but not without injury.

***

"I can't believe that of all the people to die in the wreckage of the Triskelion that Nazi bastard Rumlow wasn't one of them," Sam cursed quietly.

"How many agents?" Steve asked, keeping his voice equally low. They'd just scaled the side of the Smithsonian's National History building and were now looking in from one of the dome's upper windows. 

Sam passed him back the binoculars. "About twenty. So, what's the plan?"

Steve looked through the binoculars again. "They're mostly on the ground, I can only spot a couple on the gallery. It'd be best to attack from above."

"Shame about my wings."

"Air and Space museum is that way." Steve tipped his head to one side.

He was rewarded with a genuine grin from Sam, who was shaking his head, even as he was trying hard not laugh out loud. 

They were going to get Bucky back, Steve could feel it, despite the cold that had settled like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. He was glad he had Sam to joke with to distract himself from the worry and dread creeping into his heart. It wasn't that the stakes hadn't been equally high, if not often higher, during the war. They'd gone into some pretty nasty fights with little preparation, but... maybe he was just getting old. Or experienced, he thought bitterly. He knew the consequences of failing now, and he couldn't fail Bucky again.


	5. Chapter 5

For the first time since Rumlow had confronted Bucky his eyes weren't fixed on him. Rumlow thought he'd won, and now he was being careless. Bucky watched as the Hydra commander tilted his head up minutely and glanced towards the ceiling. 

They were barely three steps apart and Bucky closed that distance in a split second. His boot connected with Rumlow's temple with a dull thud. Bucky threw his arm around Rumlow's chest and spun them both around to use Rumlow as a human shield. Hydra's agents were good shots, but not as good as he was. A bullet deflected off his arm, another grazed his thigh, as gun shots pierced the space around him. The crash of shattering glass, the whoosh of air being sliced finely, and the clink of metal rebounding off metal — Bucky stepped back into the shadows before looking up just in time to watch Captain America's shield take out two Hydra agents. 

"What'd'you think Cap'll do with you?" Rumlow wheezed. "Boy Scout'll want you to stand trial. You'll never be free." 

Blood was running down Rumlow's forehead and into his eyes. Bucky could break his neck. He should kill him, shouldn't he? And yet... this man knew things about him that maybe no one else knew. Bucky head-butted him and left his crumpled form behind on the floor as he melted into the shadows. The Hydra agents were no longer paying any attention to him. It made sense: Captain America was their biggest enemy, their number one priority now was to kill him — Bucky was no longer their focus.

He darted through the corridors, alarm sirens ringing loudly all around him. By now the museum's security guards would be alerted and on their way too. He stopped at the entrance to the Captain America exhibit. Inside, in the first room, in a glass cabinet was his prize: Bucky Barnes's personal journal. The coast seemed clear, but Hydra knew where he was headed — and Steve had probably worked it out by now too. He could leave now and tend to the wound on his thigh, which was starting to really sting like hell. He took a deep breath. Did it really matter what was written in those pages? He'd already decided he was going to make his own _better_ choices. It would be safest to make for the exit, but... they knew what he was after now. This might be his only chance at getting it.

The din of the fight was getting louder in volume, they were coming towards him. 

Bucky _needed_ to know. 

He sprinted for the cabinet and punched it with his left fist, reached inside, and took the journal. 

"Bucky!"

 _Shit_.

He took off, still holding the journal in his hand — one less hand with which to hold a weapon, grab onto ledges, haul himself over obstacles. The journal might get damaged, he thought, as he flung himself into the next room. Steve was quick, and he was focused. If Bucky stopped paying attention to his escape, even if only for the few seconds it'd take to unbutton his tac jacket, Steve might take advantage of that. 

But he could solve his Steve problem with a punch from his metal arm, he couldn't replace the journal if he damaged it. 

He leapt over Steve's old motorbike into a crouch and shoved the journal into a breast-pocket beneath his bulletproof vest, close to his chest. Maybe it was a replica of the bike, Buck thought, as Steve threw it to one side as if it meant nothing to him in order to get at Bucky. Bucky rolled away, but not quite in time. Steve launched himself at Bucky like a missile, and although Steve landed flat on the floor behind him he somehow managed to reach about and grab Bucky's right ankle. Bucky smacked into the floor face first.

"Bucky, please don't run! I'm your friend, I can help you!"

Bucky could feel blood running from his nose. It was barely a trickle. _Good_ , he thought. This was something he could use. 

When he turned to face Steve, he barred his teeth, as if in pain. Steve froze.

Predictable, Bucky thought, and yanked his foot out of Steve's weakened grip. He snapped his knee in towards his chest, ready to kick it back into Steve's face. 

Steve was staring at him with his large blue eyes and that crooked nose that Bucky had seen on almost every photograph of Steve ever. 

Bucky's leg locked in place. He knew Steve's nose would heal if he broke it, but he felt his chest tighten at the thought of hurting Steve. Instead he started to scramble away, but someone was running towards them. He snapped his head around, but it wasn't a Hydra agent, it was the flying man from the Helicarrier, the one who'd worked with Steve to stop him. 

Steve threw his whole weight on top of him. 

"I've got him," Steve yelled at his partner. "Just... just give me a couple of minutes to talk to him."

"I'll hold them off as long as I can, but when I tell you to 'get up and run', you better do it!"

The man went back to the door to take point. 

Steve turned his attention back to Bucky. "I want to help you."

"Some way of showing it," Bucky spat back. 

Steve gave him a pleading look. "I know what you've been doing. I can tell you everything I remember, see if anything jogs your memories. We'll get 'em back, Buck, I promise!"

It felt like a punch to the gut, it felt like having his heart torn out and he wanted to scream. Shame bright as a signal flare lit up his inner world.

"Please, I can help!" Steve begged.

It was tempting, so damned tempting to just let himself melt into the heat of Steve's warm body on top of his... but the thought of that renewed and doubled the shame welling up in his chest, drowning his whole body in its sharp acid. He was going to do the right thing, because he wasn't the man the history books gushed about, but _he_ wasn't the man who'd throw himself into Hydra's waiting arms either. 

"I'm not the man you think I am."

"No, you are, you're Bucky Barn—"

"Yeah, pal, I know that. That's not what I mean."

Steve held his breath.

"Look, I don't know what you think happened after I fell, but whatever you think you know, you're wrong."

"I... I don't know much. I've got an old KGB file," Steve added. 

Bucky made a note to try and steal it from Steve at a later date. He took a breath, he tried to form the right words, but... he swallowed them down again. Rumlow might have lied to him. He doubted it, because Rumlow was right, he could just ask Steve...

"I fell off a train in the Alps while on a mission with you," Bucky stated.

Steve sucked in a breath and nodded, even though Bucky hadn't phrased it as a question. 

"You didn't look for me," Bucky continued. 

He watched Steve's face collapse. "I'm so sorry, Buck." His eyes were tearing up. "I wanted to, but there wasn't any time. Schmidt had plans to blow up every city on the East Coast. You gotta believe me. And I thought... we all thought you were dead. No one could've survived that fall."

Bucky felt a knot form in this throat. Yeah, Rumlow hadn't lied. And maybe if his past self could've seen Steve's face, heard his explanation, maybe he wouldn't have turned traitor. 

"I chose to join Hydra after I fell." Bucky forced the words past his dry as sandpaper lips. 

Steve opened and closed his mouth silently. Then his eyes hardened. "No. You didn't."

"I didn't know about the plane with the bombs going to New York." 

Steve's eyes darted across his face wildly, a deep furrow set between his brows. "When I last saw you, you didn't remember me. Hydra did that to you, they hurt you! You were their prisoner!"

Bucky shook his head. "I asked them to wipe my memories."

Steve was staring at him in obvious disbelief. 

Steve's partner's footsteps sounded loudly across the room. He was running. "Guys, we need to leave _right now_!"

"You were fighting Rumlow. You rescued me from the Potomac."

Bucky gave him a sad smile. "Yeah, I did. I won't be fighting for Hydra anymore. But I'm not the kind of guy you wanna be helping."

Tears were streaming down Steve's face at this point and his grip had been relaxing all the time during their conversation. Steve's partner was tugging urgently on his shoulders to get Steve to stand up. 

"Steve, get the hell up!" the man from the Helicarrier was saying. 

Steve got up and Bucky ran and ran and didn't stop until he'd left the Smithsonian and Steve's red rimmed eyes far behind him. 

Then he sat down, back against a corrugated iron shed in someone's backyard, his arms locked around his knees, and head buried in his arms. He cried until sunrise.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **************  
> very brief mention of suicide in this chapter  
> **************

Sam poked his head into the room that used to be his guest room, but which was now _Steve's room_. Steve had discharged himself _really_ early from the hospital despite every doctor's protest, because apparently he really hated hospitals due to being sick so much as a kid. So Sam had put him up at his, cause what else was he gonna do? Someone had to take care of Captain America. 

"So, you coming or what?" he asked. He'd given Steve space all day yesterday after the disastrous mission at the Smithsonian. He still didn't know exactly what Barnes had said to Steve, but it had made Steve cry, which was... well, it had left Sam feeling shaky on his own legs. Because whatever Barnes had told Steve, it had to be real bad.

Steve chucked the book he'd been reading onto the bedside table, heaved his legs over the side of the bed, and looked over at Sam with a brittle, lopsided smile on his lips. "Am I gonna have to talk?"

"Only if you want to. Look, I'm not gonna stop inviting you if you never share, but it _is_ kinda the point."

Steve had tilted his head to one side ever so slightly. "Yeah, I know."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "So...?"

"Maybe today's the day," Steve said as he got up. 

"Really?"

"Yeah. I was just reading... well, I remembered Johnny Derringer. Neighbor of mine back in the early 30s."

"World War I vet?"

Steve nodded. "People said the war changed him, that he used to be a popular guy, always a smile on his face, a dame on his arm."

Sam waited for Steve to continue, but when he didn't Sam stepped closer. He got a sinking feeling that he knew how the story ended. "Dude, if... you know, if you're having _thoughts_ —"

"I'm fine," Steve brushed him off. "I just... it's about what LaShonda shared last time. It isn't fair if I just sit there and stay silent, is it?"

Sam gave him a small smile. "Come, or we'll be late."

Because Steve drove like someone who'd learnt to drive in a stolen Kübelwagen in Nazi Germany they got there earlier than usual. Sam was sure that if he'd driven like that he'd currently be modelling the orange jumpsuit look.

Sam didn't want to push Steve — he'd said he'd talk after all — so he let him be while other vets shared. There weren't many of them today, and he'd arranged the chairs into a small circle. 

"I was just so angry," Damian said with a shrug. He'd been coming for years. Late-30s, no-nonsense type of guy, who rarely showed any kind of excitement or emotion, but when he did, it was like a hurricane; Sam knew that 'so angry' was likely a massive understatement. "And now... I know we've talked about this here before, but still, it's hard not to believe it. When he told me that, yeah, he thought I was no better than a murderer... right back to square one. 'I killed two men' — that's all I could think. What had those two people ever done to me? How can I live with what I did?"

Sam was about to reply, when he saw Steve take a breath and sit up straighter in his chair. "Steve?"

Immediately everyone else's attention shifted, too. They all knew who Steve was, of course. 

"Ten thousand," Steve said quietly. Sam looked around — the confusion he saw on the other faces reassured him that he wasn't the only one who didn't understand.

"Ten thousand what?" Damian asked. 

"That's how many deaths I caused. And they call me a hero. _Ten thousand_. That includes children. Not counting the number who died due to intelligence I delivered to the Colonel. I was the Captain of a special unit. I ordered air strikes. And no civilians are safe when bombs target power stations and bridges, or when bombs go astray — and they always do. I knew that every time I called for air support."

Steve paused there, and it seemed as if he was focusing on his breathing. You could have heard a pin drop as everyone else held their breaths.

"The Germans were the enemy, but they had kids fighting for them as soldiers, barely fifteen, just off the farm, didn’t know what they were fighting for. Most people I killed probably didn’t deserve it, even if they were fighting for the Nazis.

"Am I a good person? I always wanted to do what was right. Haven’t been able to sleep well at night since the war though. I told myself that I wouldn’t take a life unless I had to. And yet I caused so many deaths."

Steve violently ran his fingers through his hair. "I was given a shield. They're for protection, right? First thing I did with it out on a mission was to throw it at someone to kill them."

Sam didn't want to stop Steve from talking, it was the first time he'd really said much, but Steve was breathing harder and his left hand was balled into a fist. 

LaShonda, angel that she was, cleared her throat and saved him from having to intervene. "You wanna do good, though? Like, I can't undo the past, but I can help now. Try 'n do what's right for the rest of my life. Maybe that'll be enough, maybe it won't, but I gotta try. Make up for all the wrong calls I made in Iraq — and for all the right calls that still got people killed."

It took Steve a moment to take it all in. "Thanks," he said awkwardly. 

Damien leant forward in his chair. "Thank you for sharing, Steve."


	7. Chapter 7

Steve stared out the window of Sam's car, not really focusing on anything. It was dark anyway. Sam was driving them over to his sister's house for dinner. All Steve wanted was to be alone right now, but he knew it would worry Sam if he said anything. The radio talked about the fight at the Smithsonian — no one mentioned them, so presumably either Bucky or Hydra had shut down the CCTV system before he and Sam had arrived. Bucky _or_ Hydra. He still couldn't bring himself of even thinking about putting an 'and' in that sentence. He felt his heart clench up painfully in his chest.

Sam turned the radio off. "I think everyone was glad you opened up."

"Yeah."

It started to rain — at first it was only a couple of round drops beating against the car's windows, but a few minutes later the wind was slamming the rain into them. 

"You talking today got anything to do with Barnes?" 

Steve sighed. "Before the war started... I never thought I'd ever kill anyone, you know? We were so young when we went to war."

They came to a stop at a red light and Sam twisted in his seat to face him.

"I got used to killing people," Steve continued, aware of Sam's kind eyes taking in every crease in his brows. "And Bucky... well, Bucky was a sniper. It's... what does that do to someone? To pull the trigger so many times? I know it changed me, but I guess I've tried to avoid thinking about it. And I've been working for S.H.I.E.L.D. all this time, I guess I lost track of how... well, it's not normal to have killed."

And as soon as Sam pulled the car up in Jenny's driveway he'd be surrounded by civilians, by kids. 

"You know you're not alone though, right? The others at group—"

"I know. I'm not sure if that makes things better or worse though."

The light turned green and they drove on with the squeak of the wind screen wipers and tap tap tap of the rain to fill the silence. 

"Bucky always had my back, we relied on each other — that trust, it got us through some of the toughest parts of the war."

"But he isn't the guy you used to know anymore?" 

Steve wasn't sure whether Sam was making a statement or genuinely asking a question, so he ignored it. "We never searched for Bucky after he fell. I thought he was dead, but he wasn't. Sam, he was lying wounded in some snow drift waiting for me to come for him... and I, I didn't even try to look for him!"

Sam kept his eyes on the road. "Okay, I'm gonna pull over and I'll tell my sister we'll be late."

***

The yellowed pages of the journal were lined and included the month and day as the heading. Half a page had been given over to each day and Bucky had filled all the pages of the journal with blue curly letters. He was glad that it was his own handwriting, because he wasn't sure how else he would've deciphered the words. He scratched out a couple of words on a hotel notepad with a hotel pen, carefully, and then quickly, to compare his writing now to that in the journal. He concluded that he'd either been in a hurry when he'd written the entries in the journal, or he hadn't wanted anyone to know what he was writing should they walk in on him unannounced — although the latter option was the less likely, since all the entries were written in Yiddish.

He flicked to the first page. Early afternoon sunlight caught on it, highlighting the date: January 1. He'd added "Saturday" by hand next to the printed date and 1943 in the top left-hand corner. The journal started during the Italian Campaign then. The allies hadn't reached Rome yet and were still stuck behind the Winter Line. 

_It's cold, and they want us to keep up our fighting strength, ready for spring, but they aren't feeding us enough to do that. I traded my smokes for extra rations. Still not enough. I don't know what it's like to not be hungry anymore. It's the start of a new year today, but it doesn't feel like that. We had a party here at the camp, the generals are trying to keep up morale, but at the end of the night I just wanted to be back home with my parents. My mama would've made sure I had second helpings of everything. Why can't I stop thinking about food?_

Bucky glanced over at the plate of sandwiches he'd made for lunch. They didn't taste nice, but he wasn't sure he wanted to spend money on hot food. This was cheaper. He could move out of the hotel, but he liked it here. The mattresses were hard, the walls, carpets, and curtains thick, and most importantly there was always hot water. He supposed he could always find more Hydra safe houses to rob, but that would be tricky now that Rumlow was on the lookout for him. He turned back to the journal and flicked through it. Part of him was hoping to spot the name 'Steve', part of him was dreading it. 

_No dames here in this camp. Not any that would go with a soldier at least. I tried to get my pal Dino to sneak off with me to one of the nearby villages, but he didn't think it was a good idea. There's a show on tonight in camp, but I didn't want to go. It won't take my mind off things. Steve hasn't replied to any of my letters. Mama said there was someone new living in his apartment and no one had seen him for months. So no point writing any more letters. I couldn't sleep last night I was so worried about him. I don't know what I'd do if I found out something had happened—_

Bucky closed the journal and took a few deep breaths. Maybe reading the journal could wait a couple of days. The sandwiches didn't look any more appetizing than before. It was good to eat a varied diet, right? So he should eat something hot, like a burger, at least once a week, he decided, already reaching for his hoodie.


	8. Chapter 8

Bucky didn't sneak out the back of the hotel — the front door was the most straightforward option. People who used the backdoor, or worse, the fire escape, were asking to be caught. Best not to stand out in any way. Easier said than done when you had a metal arm, of course. The worst of the summer heat was behind him now, so he'd pulled on a hoody, making sure to keep his left hand tucked into the front pocket.

He ambled along the concrete sidewalk. It wasn't far to the nearest diner, but he didn't want to eat too close to where he lived, in case anything went wrong - not that he expected Hydra to eat their team lunches at the "The Gourmet Burger Grill", but aliens had invaded New York City and a Norse god lived in a small apartment in Wapping, London, so you couldn't exactly trust your expectations anymore. He kept going, making his way further towards the city center.

A diner eventually caught his eye. The tables were all close together and it looked busy. Almost every table had at least someone sitting at it, but the atmosphere inside seemed subdued nonetheless.

 _Perfect_ , Bucky thought, and felt the knots in his left traps loosen a fraction as he stepped through the door. He made sure to hold his left arm stiffly, as if it were a regular prosthetic, and used his right hand to pull a chair out at one of the small tables near the door.

The burger menu was country themed, but the majority of burgers were simply variations on the old classic.

"I'll have the South African Burger and a chocolate milkshake," Bucky said when the server came over to take his order.

"Good choice! The milkshakes here are _to die_ for!" a woman at the table next to him commented.

"The burgers are good too, although I like the Brazilian best," one of the two men sitting across from her added. He looked like he was in his early forties, about a decade or so older than the woman, he reckoned. The other guy was quite obviously younger — he didn't say anything, but he gave Bucky a small wave with his right hand... which was clearly a prosthetic.

They'd probably noticed the way he'd been holding his left arm.

Act normal, don't attract attention.

Bucky didn't bother to hide his discomfort, regular people weren't perfect and they'd already spotted his arm. A quick chat was probably still called for though. "You guys come here often?"

"Yeah, it's not the closest restaurant to the VA, but it's definitely the best," the woman replied. "You just come from the VA?"

 _Damn_. So they wanted to 'help' him. He couldn't slip up, but while he had some awareness of 20th century history (and he had no idea where that knowledge had come from), he lacked an in-depth familiarity with any of the US army's most recent campaigns. It was best to stick to the truth as much as possible though.

"No. I was just wondering around, exploring the city. And yeah," he added, to pre-empt any questions, "lost the arm during my service. Good spot. So you all came here straight from the VA?"

Be the one doing the asking and you'll be fine, he told himself. After all, most people liked to talk about themselves.

"Yeah, we just came from group. I'm LaShonda, by the way."

The older man introduced himself as Damian and the younger as Dan.

"James," he replied. "Pleasure to meet you all." His mind was racing. What the hell did they mean by 'group'? A vague notion that the VA was responsible for veterans' pensions, healthcare and possibly housing... that was all that came to mind when he thought about the VA.

Bucky was saved from further conversation by the arrival of his food. The smells wafting up off his plate were those of grease and meat, and yet it smelled like sea air and sweat, gulls blaring overhead, ice cream, and a small skinny blond boy laughing.

"You okay, James?" someone asked in a low voice.

Bucky snapped his head up and looked around wildly. A woman was standing opposite him on the other side of his table. A couple of other diners were craning their necks to get a look at him. He stood up, but that only made more people turn their heads.

Two men — ah, it was Damian and Dan — were motioning to the interested diners to get back to their meals. 

LaShonda was giving him a knowing, tired smile that had no mirth in it, but a lot of understanding. "You just got back recently?"

Bucky nodded, not trusting himself to say anything else just yet. His eyesight was blurry from unspilled tears, so he tilted his head towards the ceiling, willing away the dampness. Of all the times and places his mind could have chosen to reveal... this... this... impression to him (it was too vague to be called a memory)... why now? What had set this off?

The fries looked too bright and yellow. 

Had he eaten a lot of this sort of food growing up? Surely not. Maybe on special occasions?

"James?"

His heart was still racing, along with his mind. This had happened last time too, he'd been overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. Last time of course, it had been an actual memory — it was still the only one that he had. 

"This doesn't usually happen," he choked out. "I'm fine, really."

"It's okay not to be, you know," Dan said.

Bucky pulled the straw out of the milkshake and started sipping it from the glass. It gave him time to sort through the mess in his head before needing to reply. The milkshake was cool and soothing in his suddenly parched throat. 

"Today at group," the young vet continued, "Captain America was there, and _he_ was really upset—"

Bucky started to choke and almost brought his left hand out of his pocket reflexively.


	9. Chapter 9

Bucky felt his face flush hot. He glared at Dan. "You can't just reveal that kind of thing! How do you know I'm not Hydra?" he hissed. "What if I wanted to assassinate him?" 

His heart sped up because he didn't need to imagine that scenario, he'd lived it. He saw it: Steve's face in ruins, and Steve's blood glistening on his metal fist. If it hadn't been for that flash of memory, Steve would be dead. What if the Asset had left the riverside and encountered Hydra agents? He might never have seen the museum, and he might have ended up finishing the job. 

He clenched his left hand into a fist and held onto the edge of the table with his right — the table was solid, he was in a diner, not on a Helicarrier. _Breathe in and out, in and out_ , he told himself. It wasn't good to make a scene in public and he really shouldn't talk about Hydra in public either. He scanned the restaurant, none of the diners were acting as if they were Hydra right now, but you never knew. 

Damian put a hand on Dan's shoulder. "Um, I'm not sure about Hydra, but it's probably best you don't tell people about group anyway."

"I just really wanted to help," Dan replied, sounding miserable. "Sorry."

LaShonda had been side-eyeing Dan, but now she turned her head back around to focus on Bucky. Her gaze was steady and assessing.

"Hydra, huh?"

Bucky's mouth turned dry. Maybe he should've cut his hair. It was long, there were all those pictures of him in the newspapers. Metal _left_ arm. He fit the picture. He opened his mouth to say something, but he didn't know what to say. 

"It's okay," LaShonda said, gesturing with her hand that he should stay where he was. "We didn't mean to upset you. Let's just get you out of here. We'll get them to pack the food up for take-away. Let's go somewhere more private."

Bucky watched as if in a trance as the small group of vets quickly got everything sorted — they paid for his food too — and then hurried him out onto the sidewalk. 

"I need to go," he said. 

"You haven't had your food yet," Dan replied. 

"Not hungry. Look, I just need to go."

He racked his mind for something better than 'I need to go', but an excuse wasn't really necessary in this situation and a slick lie would be more suspicious than the panicked truth, he reminded himself. That didn't make him feel any less like a dud. 

LaShonda and Damian looked understanding, but Dan had his jaw set, like he was determined to make it up to Bucky, whatever the cost. 

Bucky side-stepped him and darted around him. LaShonda held out a paper carrier bag to him. He stopped, took it, and started walking again.

"Hey, wait!"

It was Dan of course. Bucky doubled his pace, but didn't run. 

Since Dan didn't seem to care that running attracted attention he caught up with Bucky quickly.

"Sorry," the young vet said again.

"It's okay," Bucky replied. Maybe that would make him go away. 

It didn't. 

"I meant what I said, I really wanna help you."

Bucky kept putting one foot in front of the other. 

Dan matched his strides easily. "I didn't think Cap would mind if I told you that he had problems too, that he was just like us other vets in that respect. Cause I really get the feeling he wants to help people, y'know? I mean, he _is_ just a this regular guy, like — I know, hard to believe, huh? But it's true! So yeah, regular guy, but he's also really, I dunno, _impressive_. He's thoughtful and kind."

Causing a scene be damned, he should just make a dash for it and disappear down the nearest ally, but... Dan kept talking about Steve. 

And it was so, so stupid. There were better ways to learn about Steve. He had his books. And maybe people who'd met him in the present day had written about their experiences on the internet — that was something people did nowadays, after all. He hadn't checked, but now that Dan was describing what it was like to meet Captain America, Bucky felt his insides twist. It hadn't been part of his research agenda, he'd been focused on finding out about himself, but he could barely force his eyes away from Dan's lips — the words spilling out of them now were like a soft balm. They were reassuring, they matched what he'd read in the history books. If Steve was actually like the icon described in the texts, then maybe there was hope that Bucky was too. Or had been, until the fall, obviously. 

Maybe something had happened when he'd fallen, maybe he'd hit is head hard. Yeah, that had to be it. He wasn't quite sure how a head injury could turn someone into a Nazi, and part of him knew this explanation was a load of horseshit, but he _wanted_ to believe it. He wanted it all to be true: Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, best friends, loyal to one another to the core. Bucky Barnes, national hero. 

Steve's broken face looked up at him with those bright blue eyes, all the fight gone out of them. 

And now Steve was upset. 

There wasn't much he could do for Steve, but he could be kind now. Maybe the memory wipe had been the best thing that had ever happened to him. He looked at Dan. The guy was so young, damnit. 

"Okay," Bucky said. "Let's go back and eat our Burgers and talk."

The kid clearly needed someone to talk to — or, at least, someone to talk _at_.


	10. Chapter 10

"You could come to group," Damian said. They were sitting on a couple of park benches eating their burgers. 

'Group' might refer to 'vets who are drinking buddies' or something similar, but he wasn't sure. Not that it mattered what it was, because he certainly wasn't going to say yes to joining a group Steve was part of! Also he didn't plan on getting drunk. And apart from that, people would look at him, actually pay attention to him, and if people did that, then they might recognize him.

"Wouldn't feel comfortable there," he replied.

LaShonda tilted her head to one side. 

He tried to read her features: they were relaxed, but her eyes were intelligent and searching. He had the sudden feeling that people like her were always underestimated. But if she had recognized him, she was managing to hide it well. 

It didn't matter much, he told himself. The worst-case scenario was that she told the authorities, but he didn't fear them. Next time he went out he'd wear different clothes, maybe use a hair tie. She wouldn't tell Hydra... Steve, though... maybe she'd tell him. But Steve wasn't a threat.

He decided he would pack his bags tonight, just in case he had to move to another city on short notice.

"Do you have any family you can turn to?" LaSonda asked.

He shook his head. 

"No one?"

"Well, my youngest sister... I could visit her, but I don't think she'd even recognize me." He hung his head and fumbled with the right sleeve of his hoodie. "I haven't seen her in a long time. I didn't get to watch her grow up really. I don't... I don't really know her." Understatement of the century, he thought bitterly. The history books never had more to say about her than: 'Rebecca Anna Smith (neé Barnes), b.1935, youngest sister of Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes'.

"You're her older brother, man, course she'll wanna hear from you!" Dan proclaimed.

Damian put a hand on Dan's shoulder, pulling him back slightly. 

"What about friends?" Damian asked. 

"Um, I don't have any friends."

"Just something to think about, James... is the problem that no one wants to be part of your life, _or_ that you don't want anyone to be part of your life?"

Bucky rolled his eyes at Damian's question. "I don't want them in my life. I _know_ that. I'm trying hard to keep them out!"

"But why?" Dan asked.

"Cause people think they know me, but they don't. They never knew me, and so they're all better off without me! Happy now? Look, can we talk about something else?"

Bucky hadn't thought that would work, that they'd keep trying to convince him he was a good guy or something, but they didn't. Instead Dan asked him about his prosthetic. Bucky dodged the questions deftly and let Dan chatter on about his own problems. That was why he'd agreed to eat the burgers with them, wasn't it? So Dan could talk. He tried to listen and make comments where he could, but he didn't remember losing his arm, he wasn't even sure if he had a stump under all that metal. It didn't seem likely. 

When Dan started talking less and Damian steered the conversation towards football, Bucky found he couldn't keep up with the conversation at all anymore and his mind started to wander. It wasn't quite true that he didn't want other people in his life. He had a sister... _a sister!_ Who probably remembered him as a war hero, someone who had made the ultimate sacrifice while fighting against the Third Reich... could he really shatter that image of Bucky Barnes that she had? 

He wanted Steve in his life, if he was honest with himself. 

_Captain America was really upset._

It was better this way.

***

A Steve in a hurry means lamps knocked over and dents in the walls. Sam watched as the man who fights so gracefully legged it from the living room to his bedroom and back again and then didn't slow down to turn left into the kitchen. The whole house shook as Steve careered into the wall full force, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. A framed photo on a side-table fell onto the floor.

"Sorry, Sam! Peggy called, she wants to see me!" 

The front door slammed shut. 

Sam sighed and went to pick up the photo. It was one of himself and Riley — it hurt to look at it. Maybe he shouldn't have printed it out and put it in a frame. He'd only done it because... well, because he didn't want to forget his face, he didn't want to forget the good times. And he thought he'd been ready to remember them, but maybe he wasn't. He walked over to a dresser, pulled a drawer open, and placed the framed photo into it. 

He couldn't shut Riley away in a dark drawer either though. 

The photo ended up back on the side-table.

His phone range. 

"Ruthie, what's up?"

"Um, LaShonda, from group, she says she needs to talk to you and that it's urgent. I told her we don't give out counsellors' private cell phone numbers, but this seems to be really important."

Sam frowned. "Yeah, hand her over."

"Sam?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"The man from the news you were fighting. Long hair and metal arm—"

"You've seen him? Is everyone okay?"

"We're all fine. And yeah, I saw him... and talked to him. Met him in the diner round the corner from the V.A. . Thought you and Cap should know."


	11. Chapter 11

Bucky didn't want to move out of his hotel room. It was the only home he could remember having. This was his room. He grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and threw it at the bathroom door. He'd followed LaShonda and she'd made a phone call. There'd been no way for him to listen in, but he'd seen the entire scene through a window. Maybe there were others reasons for her to ask someone from the V.A. to call someone for her, but considering their interactions... it had to be Steve she'd called. At least it hadn't been the authorities. 

What would Steve do? Bucky didn't know. But Steve had worked for an intelligence organization, he'd been an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., so he undoubtedly had contacts who could help track Bucky down. Maybe he would go through CCTV footage to trace the path Bucky had taken to the diner from his hotel. He'd kept out of sight as much as possible on his return, but he hadn't made the same effort on his way to the diner. _Damn_.

The hotel was never meant to be a permanent place for him to stay, he reminded himself. The staff at reception would never give him pitying looks again. He huffed out a choked off laugh. 

Maybe Steve would ignore him.

He picked up his journal and leafed through it.

_It's tough here. Still no women, and that's making me miss Steve all the more — not that Steve's a woman, of course. I have no idea how I'd explain that to Steve though. I wouldn't be able to explain. He'd try to break my nose._

Bucky wrinkled his nose at the entry. The thought of Steve breaking it set him on edge. Steve had thrown his shield away and let Bucky punch him half to death rather than risk hurting Bucky. He'd only hurt Bucky when he hadn't had a choice, when it was that or millions of people dying. His past self already had a dark secret at this point in time — before being captured by Hydra, before falling from the train. He jumped ahead a couple of days. 

_When I close my eyes I keep seeing my dearest. This is getting ridiculous and I don't want to risk putting it into words. Just like I could never risk telling Steve the truth about myself. No, he must never know the truth. I never trusted him with it in the past and now I know that I never can. Because I wouldn't survive it. It's tearing me apart that I've not heard from him for this long, but it could be worse._

Bucky turned the page. 

_Sometimes my resolve has wavered. When we went to Coney Island it almost crumbled. But you have to promise me this, future self. When you read this again after the war, let these entries be a reminder of the stakes. Steve can't know. Not ever._

A gasp escaped Bucky's lips. He'd left a message for himself. One request – not to tell Steve the truth. He'd already told Steve that he was a traitor, though. No, that couldn't be it, could it? Rumlow had said he'd switched sides after falling. But maybe it was Rumlow who didn't know the whole truth. Bucky chewed on his bottom lip. When he'd been captured by Hydra during the war they'd taken him off to some place inside the factory from which no prisoners returned alive. He had come out of there alive though. The history books quoted Gabe Jones: _Cap rescued Barnes just in time._ What if it was due to a deal Bucky had made with Hydra? Although, if the dark secret from the journal was something to do with Hydra, then he'd struck a deal with them way before he was captured.

 _Ugh_ , he was back to square one. And he would always return there. The journal didn't mention Hydra, so maybe Rumlow was right, but who knew what had gone through Bucky's mind when he'd switched sides? What was this truth his past self was referring to?

At least one thing seemed to be a constant in his life: thoughts about Steve. He wanted to see Steve again, he wanted Steve to like the person he was now. 

He wanted to move out of the hotel tonight so that Steve could never track him down.

***

Good days were getting rarer, so when Peggy was having a good one and ordered Steve to visit her, there wasn't anything on Earth that could stop him storming to her side. He was panting when he reached her room. Despite the hurry he'd been in not a moment before he took a couple of seconds to calm himself and wipe the light sheen of sweat from his brow. When he felt presentable he knocked on her door.

"Come in."

Steve couldn't help the grin that plastered itself on his face when he saw her. "Hey Peggy."

" _Steve!_ " She was holding a crumpled piece of paper in her hands. 

"Is that for me?" he asked. 

She frowned. "Is what for you?"

"The note you're holding."

She ran her aged fingers over the lined sheet. It was her handwriting, Steve was sure of it. "I don't know. Do you want it?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah, I'd like to see it."

It seemed the good day might already be over. If only he lived closer! He smoothed the note out and read it.

_Trenton State Asylum. I remember seeing funds diverted there once, but never followed up on it. I was so busy. I'm sorry._

Steve felt his airways constrict. "It's okay," he said. "You didn't know."

Peggy looked at him in confusion.

"You didn't know about Bucky. That Hydra was inside SHIELD and using him as a weapon."

He tucked the note into his pocket. 

"I saw him. Recently I mean. Sam and I tracked him down. And... when I finally got to talk to him Bucky told me that he didn't remember anything. None of his memories had returned. And he also said... he said that he chose to join Hydra of his own free will. After the fall."

"Steven Grant Rogers," Peggy scolded, and Steve looked around for a nurse. He hadn't meant to upset her. He probably shouldn't have said anything. 

"I have never heard anything as ridiculous in my entire life!" Peggy continued. "If Sargent Barnes doesn't remember anything, then how can he possibly remember volunteering with Hydra?"

Steve barked out a strangled laugh as a thick knot formed in his throat. "Peggy, I love you so much. I really do." It wasn't fair that he'd never gotten his dance with her, that he'd never gotten to come home with her after the war, because she really was the most fantastic person he knew. "You're right."

"Your guilt is clouding your judgement. I told you, respect Barnes's choices. He thought you were worth it. Now's your time to prove it. Find out what you need to prove to Barnes that he isn't the monster he seems to believe he is."


	12. Chapter 12

Steve dashed to his bike and then stopped in front of it, looking around. _Deep breath, Rogers,_ he thought. He pulled out the note Peggy had written. Right, Trenton, that's where he needed to go. He could easily get there before sun set and he'd be back well before midnight. 

The journey was fairly uneventful. He was stopped twice by the cops, but they let him go again ( _But next time wear a helmet! Think about the children!_ ) and the second one said he'd call ahead and let the others know not to stop him. 

So he was making good time. The wind whipping his face felt good, even if the bugs were getting in his mouth. 

The fuel indicator was nearing empty. 

He pulled over at the next gas station, still several miles out from Philadelphia. As he took his wallet out to pay for the gas he noticed there was a notification on his cell. 

_Missed call from Sam Wilson._

No, several notifications. Sam had been trying to reach him all day it appeared. 

He could feel the knots starting to form in his stomach. Something was up, he could feel it. It was going to be about Bucky and here he was in the middle of nowhere. He strode to a hedge at the far side of the service station where his call wouldn't be overheard by anyone. Sam picked up immediately. 

"What's up?" Steve asked.

"Barnes has been sighted. Some of the vets from group spotted him here in D.C. . While you were busy not picking up I got hold of Nat and she called in a few favors. Or threatened people, I don't really know. Anyway, I've finally got an address."

Steve closed it eyes and clenched his teeth. "In D.C.?"

"Yeah." There was a second's pause. "Where are you?"

"Just about to head into Pennsylvania. Following a lead Peggy gave me."

"You might wanna get back here."

He started walking towards his bike again. It wouldn't do him any good to hang up now and storm off, that's what had landed him in this mess in the first place. 

"Look, Steve, it's a hotel. So he might not be there tomorrow. He might've left two hours ago, we don't actually know, but the sooner we get there, the easier it will be to find him. It's our best opportunity of taking him in. I can call the feds, but I won't unless you give the go-ahead. Steve, I need to know where you stand on Barnes after whatever passed between you two at the museum."

"Don't call anyone in on this. Nothing's changed. He needs help, Sam."

"Okay, good. Just wanted to make sure we were still on that page. So, you're heading back now?"

Steve stared out at the highway. If he turned back now he'd be facing Bucky without the necessary evidence. If he spent time going to Trenton State, there was a good chance he'd find something that would help convince Bucky that Hydra had brainwashed him, that he hadn't chosen to work with them. He was now several hours out of D.C., so Bucky might well be gone by the time he reached the hotel. But what good was gathering evidence if he let this lead on Bucky's whereabouts go cold? There was no point if he couldn't present his findings to Bucky and they still had the K.G.B. file, even if it was slim and didn't give enough details. Maybe it would convince Bucky to stick around while they gathered evidence of what had been done to him.

"Yeah, I'm turning around now," Steve answered.

"I'll watch the hotel, see if I can spot Bucky entering or leaving."

"Thanks Sam, I don't know what I'd do without you."

Within a minute of finishing the call Steve was speeding down the highway towards Washington D.C. as fast as he could push the engine. The scenery rushed by in a blur on either side, while the hot tarmac shimmered in the last of the evening's heat. Steve swerved around the cars in front of him, trying force the bike to go faster still. If only had hadn't rushed off without checking in on Sam. Him and Sam were a team now, what the hell had he been thinking? He hoped Bucky would still be at the hotel when he got there, but all he could do now was hurry back.

***

Bucky pulled the journal out of his bag and flung it across the room. It landed on the hotel bed. He glared at it. It was a time capsule of sorts, a way for his past self to communicate with his present self.

He should sleep, he knew. He threw himself onto the bed and folded his arms so he could rest his head on them. All he could think about was Steve Rogers. He felt his skin prickle. He'd told Steve that he was Hydra, that he'd chosen to be Hydra, and the result hadn't been a bloody nose, only heartbreak and tears on Steve's face. It made him want to scream. And it made his arms and legs restless, he wanted to punch and kick things. His whole body wanted to react, to do something, to reach out and grab... grab what? Not the pillows or cushions, that was for sure. No, he thought, turning onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. It was Steve he wanted to feel. 

It wasn't just about fighting. Sure, he could imagine letting off some steam by going toe to toe with Steve in combat, but it was more than that. The heat radiating off his body, the physical presence of it, and being able to feel the strong muscle beneath his hands. 

He closed his eyes and imagined grabbing hold of Steve. But imagining doing something that he couldn't actually do was even more frustrating. Because there was no one to hold onto, no one for him to cling to in this torrent of emotions — he was entirely alone in this world and it was all his own doing.


	13. Chapter 13

Steve pulled up outside the hotel. Sam was nowhere in sight, but as soon as he got off his bike his phone started ringing in his pocket — it was Sam.

"Is he inside?" Steve asked.

"I don't know. Didn't see him leave or enter. He could've left before I got here, or maybe he snuck out the back."

"Thanks. I'm going in now."

"Here if you need me," Sam said, his tone suddenly very serious, then he ended the call. Steve glanced back over his shoulder as he stepped into the hotel lobby, but he couldn't manage to get a glimpse of Sam. Where ever he was hiding had to be out of view. 

"Can I help?" one of the two ladies at the reception desk asked with a genuine smile as Steve entered. 

"I'm looking for someone." He gave her Bucky's description as best as he could. From the concern on her face and the furtive glances she was exchanging with the other woman it was clear to Steve that she had seen Bucky. "Which room is he staying in?" Steve pressed. 

"Who are you?" she asked in response. 

For a moment Steve was stumped. He hadn't been anticipating that question and he didn't have his shield with him, but he'd gotten a lot of exposure in the media recently, so he hoped that would do. 

"Captain America," he replied. 

The other receptionist gasped. "Is he in trouble with the police?" 

"No, no, definitely not!" Steve replied. It was a lie, but he definitely didn't want them linking Bucky to the Winter Soldier. "He's just a friend of mine. A vet. He's not doing too well, and I was worried about him."

He could see them both nodding their heads sympathetically and looking at him as if he were covered head to toe in fluffy kittens or puppies. 

"Is he here?" Steve asked, wringing his hands. If Bucky had seen him coming, he could already be trying to make an escape out of a window. 

"Oh. Um. He checked out already. I'm sorry."

Steve's muscles switched themselves into 'pursuit' mode. He leapt for the door, throwing a hasty "Which way'd he go?" back over his shoulder. 

"Wait, he left a letter for you!"

Steve stuck his arms out and grabbed onto the side of the door to slow himself down, then he doubled back on himself and crashed into the reception desk. "What? Where is it?"

"Uh. Here." The receptionist reached for something behind the counter. She handed an envelope over to him. "The cleaning personnel found it in the room. It says 'To Steve'. We didn't know what to do with it and thought about throwing it out, but um, well, this is for you, isn't it?"

Steve nodded, his eyes glued to the handwritten words. That was Bucky's handwriting. _To Steve._ His heart was still pounding in his chest from his aborted attempt to run after Bucky. Which reminded him... 

"Thanks!" he said, "Thank you!" as he stuffed the letter into his jacket pocket and rushed towards the door again. 

"He's long gone!" one of them shouted at his back, but Steve couldn't think about that. Bucky might still be around somewhere. He whipped his head around to look left along the street, then right. He couldn't even spot Sam, how was he meant to find Bucky? He pulled out his cell to call Sam. 

"No need. I'm right here." 

Steve looked up he saw that Sam was there, walking straight towards him. 

"Sam, Bucky's gone. But he left me a letter."

Both Sam's eyebrows shot up. "What did he say?"

Steve yanked the letter out of his pocket and tore it open, scanning each line. It wasn't a long letter. Sam waited with his arms folded across his chest, his left foot tapping the sidewalk. 

"He says he's leaving D.C. and that he's gonna go underground. Says I shouldn't bother looking for him, he's not planning on leaving any traces this time."

"That all?"

"No," Steve said on an exhale. "He... he also wrote that he's a good person _now_."

Sam chewed briefly on his bottom lip. "This got anything to do with what happened at the museum?"

Steve heaved a sigh. "Yeah. Sam, he thinks he volunteered with Hydra."

"What? That can't be right. I mean, I guess it's possible—"

"No. He also said he didn't remember anything. Hydra put that thought into his head, must've been Rumlow."

"Right," Sam said. "So how do we find him?"

"I don't know," Steve replied and put his hands on his hips "Security cameras around the hotel?"

Sam gave him a lopsided smile. "I'll call Nat," he said, pulling out his phone. 

Steve drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. It helped him to calm down, but his whole body was still pumped full of energy from the news that Bucky'd checked out already. The feeling would wear off soon, he knew, and talking to Sam was helping. Formulating plans with Sam helped him feel less powerless. "Yeah, how'd you get hold of Nat anyway?" he asked once his mind caught up with the details of Sam's plan. "Even I don't have her phone number!"

"I got my ways." Sam smirked. "Come, there's nothing you can do here." He slung an arm around Steve's broad shoulders and dragged him away from the hotel's entrance.


	14. Chapter 14

Becca's right hip felt like someone had dropped it in a bucket of ice cubes, and her shoulder muscles felt inflamed and painful. She opened her eyes and stared up at the dark blue expanse that the normally bright white ceiling transformed into every night. She wasn't going to get any sleep tonight either, was she? Becca huffed and pulled the covers up around her hip, trying to warm it, but she could tell it would require some serious heat to beat back the arthritis tonight. The bed was simply too cold since Charles had died and after almost six decades of sharing a bed sleep didn't come easy now she was alone. And there was no one to complain to about the lack of sleep she was getting either. And it wasn't until Charles was gone that she'd really started to notice just how annoying Charlene's dog really was. Her neighbor left her dog Pippin tied up in the yard at night and it barked whenever a car or a pedestrian passed by. Or a bird flew overhead. Or the grass grew.

Tonight the tiny devil beast had been blessedly silent. Maybe it had gotten too excited at a passing car and managed to choke itself on its lead? Good riddance if that was the case, she thought. 

Becca groaned and swung her legs off the edge of the bed. She put on her dressing gown and slippers to check on Pippin. She didn't actually want him to be dead, she just wanted Charlene to move to the other side of town, that was all. Australia would also be good. Charlene never paid her full share to repair the fence between their yards when the winter winds blew it down, which they almost always did. 

She stepped out the back door into the cool night air and peered into Charlene's garden where the fence had come down in January. Charles would have had it fixed months ago, but she hadn't found the energy to fight Charlene for her portion of the repair costs yet. Maybe next week. Or next year. What did she really care if the fence was repaired or not? Maybe she'd wait for Charlene to get it fixed, then Charlene could chase her for the money. 

"Pippin? Here, boy!"

No response. 

" _Pippin!_ "

"He's asleep," a male voice said. It came from the shadows to her left. 

Becca jumped back a step towards the door. Her heart hammered so hard in her chest she was momentarily shocked at the reminder of the strength that particular organ of her's still had. 

"You better not come any closer, I can scream like you wouldn't believe," she shot back. 

Nothing happened. She still couldn't see the man, but she was sure he hadn't come any closer either. 

The wind rustled the branches in a tree to her right. Or was it him? She snapped her head to the right, but the man wasn't there. She slowly reached behind her for the door handle. Maybe she could make it inside, lock the door, and call the police and that would be the end of it. Could be one of those teens who were high on weed or crystal meth or had been drinking superglue — who knew? Her daughter Lizzy had told her about some kids she taught being expelled from Wilson Peak High for doing drugs on a school trip last year. 

Charles's gun was in the bottom drawer of the study's desk. Not that she had any clue how to use it, but just showing it to the man might be enough to make him go away if he did manage to break in through a window. 

"Rebecca Anna Smith?" the man asked. "Born 1935?"

Her fingers finally found and clasped the cold metal of the door handle. "Election isn't til next year. Bug off!" 

"I'm not here to hurt you. I'm..." 

Definitely on drugs, she thought and pulled the door handle down — the door swung open inwards and she stepped back into the warmth of her home. Now the figure stepped out of the shadow towards her. Quickly she shut the door. Where was the key? In her pocket? On the kitchen counter? _Damn_. She kept her hands on the handle and leant against the vinyl surrounding the large glass pane of the door to stop the man from entering her home. Her breaths were coming hard now, she was in deep trouble. _Should've screamed while you were outside,_ Becca scolded herself. Now she didn't think she had sufficient air in her lungs to make enough noise to rouse Charlene from her sleep. 

The man stepped closer, into the dim light that filtered out from the kitchen. He had long scraggly, dark hair, a couple of day's stubble, and wore a baseball cap and dark green hoodie. 

"Please, I'm... I'm your brother. James Buchanan Barnes. I'm Bucky."

"I'm gonna call the police. Get away from me!"

Becca took a deep breath and tried to collect herself. The man was just standing there. Suddenly she thought of the dog, the one she'd wanted to kick so many times, but of course never had. 

"What did you do to Pippin?" she demanded, sharp. 

The man flinched back and for a moment Becca was stumped. The situation was too ludicrous to be real.

"Didn't hurt him, I swear!" the drug addict replied, throwing his hands up in front of him. One of them glinted in the light. 

Becca screwed up her eyes, but the hand disappeared out of view again. Her heart had already given up on furiously pumping the blood around her system. She understood she was still in danger, but she felt her grip on the door handle relax anyway. It was painful to grip it so tightly and the guy looked strong — if he wanted to break in then no amount of her holding the door closed would help. He could probably kick the door down even if she locked it. 

"The dog's asleep, that's all!" the man said. 

He'd flinched away the last time she'd shouted at him. Maybe that was the trick. "Don't bullshit me! Pippin wakes up at the sound of a worm farting, he's not asleep."

"I mean, I put him to sleep. With sleeping pills. For dogs!" Becca caught a flash of the glinting hand again as the man ran it through his lanky hair. "Damn, I'm screwing this up completely. I'm sorry."


	15. Chapter 15

"It's really me. I'm Bucky. Steve came back, right? I survived too, just like him." 

The stranger's words helped calm Becca. Whoever this was might still act unpredictably and dangerously, but she was starting to believe this might not have to end badly. The man was clearly living on another planet — quite possibly he had become obsessed with conspiracy theories surrounding her brother's death — but maybe she could talk him down, persuade him to get help. She briefly glanced towards Charlene's garden, but couldn't make out anything through the break in the fence. If he was a tin foil hatter, then maybe he really had gone to the trouble of getting sleeping pills that were suitable for dogs. Got in himmel, she hoped this would turn out alright!

"So, you believe your Bucky Barnes?" she asked, and although she tried, her voice was not as clear nor her words as steady as she hoped they'd be.

The man sighed. "I _am_ him."

"I know you believe that, but think about it... if you were him, you wouldn't have any trouble convincing me, would you now? Just tell me what your last words to me were before you shipped out."

The man was silent. Of course he was, Becca thought bitterly. For all the conspiracy theories these people could concoct, they really were oblivious to the most plain to see facts. 

"I don't remember," the man replied, and his voice broke on the last word. "I don't have _any_ memories. I didn't even know my own name." He lowered his voice and Becca had to strain to hear it. "I didn't know I was Bucky Barnes, but Steve did. He knew me."

If she'd been talking to this man in a coffee shop in daylight she would've rolled her eyes. As it was, her body was too on edge to react that way, but her mind wasn't. _Of course_ he has amnesia, she thought. _Of course._

"Look—," Becca started to say, but was interrupted by the man. 

"I know how that sounds, and I didn't believe it at first. But I went to the Smithsonian and they had pictures of me there." When she didn't reply to that immediately, the man started to fumble with the sleeves of his hoodie. "There's more. I know some stuff that wasn't in the exhibit." He sighed and looked down at the ground. 

She squinted at him. "You saw Bucky's photos in the museum and you look like him... dark hair, cleft chin? That's not much proof, lots of guys look like him."

The man was getting more agitated and she wondered if maybe she should have played along instead. Wasn't too late for that, of course. She had to be careful. 

"I was fighting for Hydra." Dulled as the man's words were through the glass of the door, they were barely louder than a whisper, but it was as if the wind outside had stopped completely, as if all sound apart from the man's words had drained out of the world. _Hydra_. She gripped the door handle tighter on her side of the door. 

"Sorry." His voice was hoarse. "That's probably the last thing you want to hear. And part of me hopes I can't convince you, so you can keep on believing I died a hero." 

He clenched his jaw and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm. Every inch of fabric he pulled back revealed more metal. She couldn't hold back the gasp that escaped her lips before she'd even had time to think: the D.C. shooter was standing in her back garden. This was serious.

"They sent me to kill Steve. We fought on one of the helicarriers. You heard about that in the news."

It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyway, mind too numb with shock to respond in any other way. 

"When it was over and the helicarriers were crashing into the river he saved my life. I'd just put three bullets into him, and he... lifted this girder that was pinning me down. As soon as he'd free me I started attacking him again." The D.C. shooter took a shaky breath. "He refused to fight me and when I was about to kill him the fight just went out of his eyes, and I remembered something. I remembered him, the fight going out of his eyes, finally backing down and accepting help from me. Must've been from before the war."

Becca stared at him, trying to get a better look at his face. She needed her glasses. It couldn't possibly be Bucky, she thought and she found herself shaking her head. The man grimaced and she stopped. She had to be smart. If the shooter really believed he was Bucky then she could use that to her advantage. Images flashed in front of her mind's eye of newspaper headlines hailing her as a hero for bringing in the D.C. shooter. Ridiculous, she thought. She wasn't a hero, not in that kind of way. But maybe she could do _something_ , get a good look at his face to give the police something to go on if nothing else. 

"Don't come into my house," she commanded as sternly as she could. "I'm going to fetch my glasses so I can take a look at you."

The man nodded and she let go of the door handle and stepped back, not taking her eyes off the man. He didn't move. When she'd backed up to the other side of the kitchen, near the doorway, he was still standing there, so she turned on her heel as fast as she could and rushed towards the study. Charles hadn't wanted to pay out for one of those medical emergency panic buttons on the landline phone — she wished she'd stood her ground, it would have come in useful now. She glanced briefly at the phone, but she didn't trust that she could make a call without the man noticing. 

Her glasses were on top of the desk because she'd been writing letters to the grandkids. The gun was in one of the desk drawers. 

She grabbed the glasses, shoved them on, and in the moment it took her to turn towards the door again her gaze fell on the one picture of Bucky she kept on display. A handsome, smiling, young man looked out from the confines of the black fame. Her parents had kept it on the mantelpiece, then when they passed her oldest sister had taken it, and finally she'd ended up with it. She picked it up on her way back to the kitchen. Acting wasn't her strong suit, so having a prop couldn't hurt. 

She approached the kitchen on soft feet and peered into it cautiously. Her muscles felt sore from all the tension. The D.C. shooter was still outside and didn't look like he'd moved an inch. She relaxed minutely. 

"Right, let me get a good look at you," she said.


	16. Chapter 16

The decades weren't kind to memories. There were so many things she'd never thought she'd forget, and yet when she tried to recall them — poof! All gone! She couldn't quite bring herself to care about forgetting most of the people she'd gone to school with, but the sound of her brother's voice, the specific way his lip curled when he smiled? It was painful to think that those details had long been lost in the flow of time. 

With shaky hands she held up the photo of Bucky and looked between it and the man in front of her. 

The scruff, the unkempt hair, it was all wrong. The clothes weren't right either. And yet... she had to admit that he did look similar in some ways. Becca imagined giving the police her description of the D.C. shooter: _Oh, he looks just like my long-dead brother! Except a bit older, and like someone tried to drown him in a dumpster._ Yeah, they would _definitely_ believe her, she thought bitterly.

Uncertain blue eyes stared back at her. 

He'd said that Steve had recognized him. After waking up out of the ice Steve hadn't gotten in contact with her. He'd probably been too busy saving the world... or maybe he hadn't wanted to look up everyone he'd once known, only to find out how they'd lived a full life (or not) without him and how inevitably, one by one, they'd all passed away. One thing she was sure of was that Steve hadn't simply forgotten her, because Steve had last seen her only a couple of year ago — it was she who hadn't seen Steve in seventy years and who'd forgotten him... just as she'd forgotten her brother.

The man outside looked nervous. It wasn't his posture, it was his eyes. They flicked across her face looking for clues. 

"You do look similar to him," she conceded and set the photo down on the kitchen counter. 

The man's expression didn't change, but she thought his breathing sounded heavier. 

Here was a killer, a _scared_ killer, who thought he was a long dead war hero — and she couldn't even say for certain that he wasn't her brother. It was so unfair she wanted to scream. Every instinct she had told her to tell him to go away and never come back. It was impossible that he was Bucky, and yet... 

Steve was back and aliens had invaded. 

What did she have left to live for anyway?

"Come in," she said and stepped back from the door. 

As soon as the words left her mouth she regretted them. She didn't actually want to die. 

The man tentatively reached for the door handle. The door opened as if in slow motion, but despite that he was inside within the blink of an eye. His hoodie looked like it had seen better days, and there were dark circles under the man's eyes.

They stared at each other in silence for a while, Becca too petrified to move. What was she meant to do? Ask him if he wanted a sandwich?

The man cleared his throat.

Becca almost jumped out of her skin at the sudden noise.

"Sorry," he said, "didn't mean to startle you. I'm just... just gonna pull a book out of my pocket. That's all."

She was glad he'd warned her or she might have thought he was reaching for a gun. Even so she couldn't let go of the thought that he was pulling out a weapon.

He drew a small book out of his pocket and placed it on the counter next to the photo and then backed away from it. 

"You want me to pick it up?" Becca asked.

"Yeah."

It was old, she could tell that immediately. It wouldn't have looked out of place in her father's old study. She inched towards it, grabbed it, and stepped away from the counter again, putting even more distance between herself and the D.C. shooter. Soon they'd be on opposite sides of the kitchen from one another. 

The pages were stained with age and it took a second for her brain to parse that the handwriting in it was in Yiddish. 

_I've been in Europe less than a month, but it feels like years._

It was Bucky's writing, she knew it. Nothing else made sense, and besides, the word order was English. Bucky had never gone to a Jewish school like she and her sisters had.

"Where did you get this?" she asked in Yiddish. 

"I didn't steal it," came the immediate reply — in Yiddish. "Actually I did. But it's mine, so it's not really stealing."

Did she believe him? Her chest felt tight and tears pricked her eyes. She told herself that the man standing in her kitchen wasn't Bucky, but that didn't stop her hands from dropping the book, nor her shoulders from shaking with effort as she tried not to cry. 

"Bucky?" she finally managed to ask past the knot in her throat. 

He didn't reply, but he was breathing so hard now that she could clearly hear every in-take of breath. 

"What did they do to you?" Becca couldn't hold back the tears any longer and she wasn't sure why exactly she was crying. It felt like she was crying because of everything. For her parents, who'd lost their son, for herself, who'd missed out on having "Uncle Bucky" round for Sunday dinners to play with his nieces, or for Bucky, who'd died in the war and now come back as... as this amnesiac killer. 

She wiped the tears out of her eyes, but more kept coming. What the hell was she meant to do? This was actually her brother, wasn't it? But she didn't know him anymore, she'd never known _this_ man. And brother or not he still had a lot of blood on his hands.

Bucky — or whoever Bucky was now — took a tentative step towards her. "Um. Don't cry." He looked around the kitchen. 

Becca tried to pull herself together. What the hell was she gonna do? This whole situation was completely messed up.


	17. Chapter 17

"The journal," Bucky explained, a metal digit poking at the last entry — it wasn't the final page. "It just ends here!" There were no entries for the final month of that year. 

They were sitting together on a sofa in Becca's living room, two empty coffee cups in front of them, pink dawn light filtering in through the blinds.

Becca met her brother's eyes — she was now convinced he was in fact Bucky — but she soon had to avert her gaze after a couple of seconds because her emotions were bubbling over; the lid she'd temporarily put on them was no match for the naked confusion and helplessness on Bucky's face. For all that strong muscle and height his body was graced with, he was scared. 

"31st of October. Not long after Azzano," Becca replied with a sniffle. "Oh, Bucky what did they do to you?" She raised her hand, wanting to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Bucky's ear, but she thought better of it and dropped her hand back to her side. 

"There's gotta be more! He... I don't explain it all."

Becca held out her hands to take the diary from him. "What don't you explain?"

Bucky hesitated. "You might not like what it says," he mumbled. 

"I almost certainly won't. War is hell and that's a war diary."

Bucky licked his lips. "I told you I worked for Hydra."

Becca frowned and listed as Bucky explained what he knew. That he'd joined Hydra after being presumed dead and his fears that he may have planned to fake his death, that he'd been a double agent even before falling from the train.

"And if I was a secret Nazi agent," Bucky explained, "was I one from the start or only after being captured during the Battle of Azzano? I mean, I... I can see how it might not make any difference to most people, but I just want to understand _why_ I joined Hydra."

As she'd been listening to him Becca's frown had only deepened, but she'd bitten her tongue. Every fiber of her being wanted to shout out that her brother was a hero. But how could she launch into a passionate defense of 'Bucky Barnes' when the very person coming to her with this traitorous story was Bucky himself? Well, maybe he wasn't 'himself', but he was whatever was left of her brother after all this time. 

"I need to know if I was a Hydra agent before they captured me or not," Bucky said as he finally passed over the diary. "I think I might have been, because... well, you'll see. Secrets I'm keeping from Steve, from everyone."

He looked miserable and so impossibly _young_ , she thought. He didn't even know how he'd survived the fall from the train. She asked him if he'd been frozen too, but he hadn't known. He had no idea why he still looked twenty-something years old.

The journal weighed heavy in her lap. It was Bucky's journal and if he'd written in here that he worked for the Nazis... she didn't know what she'd do. She honestly didn't. 

"You don't have to read it—"

She shushed him with a wave of her hand, clenched her jaw and started to read the last entry. 

_It's mayhem in the camp right now. Feels like the world's coming to an end, even though we were just rescued. No one cares anymore about anything. Find some alcohol? Try and drink yourself to death._

_Wish I was back in Brooklyn. I want to go home. Everywhere I look here it's a party. There's this devil-may-care attitude and it'll be the death of me. I can't risk it. I can't get drunk, I can't let myself relax, or I'll get swept up in it all and reveal myself._

She flicked back through the diary. 

"Here," Bucky said, and turned the pages for her. "There are several entries about 'the secret'," he explained grimly. 

When she'd read them all she stared at the pages, the words blurring in front of her eyes. Was she interpreting the words right? And if so, did they absolve Bucky? That was what he was hoping to find out, wasn't it? Whether he'd been a double agent before Hydra had captured him or not... 

"Told you," Bucky grumbled, and looked down at the floral carpet.

She could be reading it all wrong. Her eyes flicked back to the words in the diary again. No, there was no way in hell these entries were about anything else. 

Bucky's lips curled up into a wry smile. "I told you, but you're still shocked to read it."

"No," she retorted. "I'm shocked by what I just read, but no, it's not... you weren't working for Hydra. That's not what your secret was."

Instantly Bucky snapped his head around, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. "What?"

"Well, I mean, I'm not so shocked really," she amended. Because of course some guys have their fellas and some women have their gals, but she just never knew how Bucky felt about Steve. She wondered if any of her older sisters had known and just never told her. Likely no one knew though, she reminded herself.

She bit the inside of her cheek as her heart physically ached for Bucky — for the man he used to be and for the one he was now. If he'd misinterpreted his diary so badly, surely he'd gotten all the other stuff wrong too? He had no memories... someone had done this to him, he wasn't a Nazi. She felt her face flush hot with anger as well as shame at even having let any doubts about that into her mind. 

She touched his forearm with her fingers and her heart clenched tight as he tensed. What had he been through?

"Bucky, you were in love with Steve," she said gently. "That's what it was. You didn't want him to know. There's nothing in those lines about you working for the Nazis."

Bucky went still next to her. "Are you sure?" he finally asked, looking slightly dazed. 

"I'm sure."


	18. Chapter 18

When Sam had first called her earlier that day Natasha had immediately reached for her other phones and her laptop. By the time Sam hung up she was already half-way there to getting him Barnes's location. Once everything was set into motion, she'd packed a bag and made for the airport. The boys were lucky she was currently in the country. A week ago she'd been racing around Paris... but then she'd gotten a call on her unregistered cell. Nick Fury had wanted her back in the States.

The airport terminal was busy. As she waited at the gate for her plane to commence boarding Sharon texted her an address. A hotel in D.C. . She forwarded the information on to Sam. _Sending... Message sent._ She gave a small sigh of relief and let herself relax back into one of the lounge chairs in the business class area.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She straightened herself up. Sam would be happy, she thought, and a small smile curled her lips as she pulled her cell out. It wasn't Sam though, it was Sharon. 

_Nat, I got u the info, but tell me... r we talking about the guy I met at Steve's house party?_

For a moment Nat could only stare at the screen. Right, Americans and their 'parties'. 

She bit her lip. Sharon worked for the CIA now, what were the chances that the phone wasn't secure? That Sharon would talk? Sharon might have trusted Nick Fury and 'Captain America', but did she trust Natasha Romanov? This would be a lot easier if she had some way of proving to Sharon that she was acting on Steve's behalf. Well, technically she was doing Sam a favor, of course, but it amounted to the same.

_Sharon, you sly fox!_

She read the text message one more time before sending. It gave away too much, but she also couldn't alienate Sharon, that was a risk she wasn't prepared to take. 

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and her heart started beating faster. Someone was watching her, no... staring at her. She could feel it. Slowly she threw a glance back over her shoulder, as if adjusting her suit jacket. 

Tiny, black hair, large brown eyes... it was a young girl. Natasha's heart didn't stop beating fast. Young girls could be dangerous assassins. 

She had a small ceramic blade in her pocket which she reached for carefully before turning round again.

"Woah! Black Widow?" the girl asked. 

Nat didn't reply.

"You're my favorite Avenger! But I've got a Hulk toy because I couldn't find a Black Widow one. He's a good Hulk, he hardly destroys anything," she said as she petted the fluffy green thing in her arms.

***

"Hey Nat! Great to see you!" Sam said throwing his arms open wide the minute Natasha stepped out of the hire car she'd parked right in front of Sam's house. Not as flashy as she normally liked, but it was better to keep a low profile.

Nat hugged him and then let him take her bag. "Sorry I missed your calls, was in the air."

"Yeah, I figured."

"I've reached out again to my contact before driving here. Hopefully we'll get a lead on Barnes again soon. Where's Steve? He out?"

"Um, no, he's in," Sam said. 

Nat took in Sam's reticent tone, the worry in his eyes, and she felt her heart speed up. "What happened?"

"No, nothing like that!" Sam stopped and set her bag down on the path. He turned to her. "I'm glad you're here," Sam continued. "Steve's... he's not taking this very well."

Natasha arched an eyebrow. "Doesn't sound like Steve."

Sam huffed out a laugh. "He's good at hiding it, but I can tell. Steve needs a plan, he needs to know the trail hasn't gone completely cold."

She eyed him. There was something Sam wasn't telling her. "He feels like he's back to square one," she said, her gaze not wavering. 

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Barnes left a message. Said he doesn't want to be found."

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek. "Didn't we already know that?"

Sam looked down. The grin he plastered on his face didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, well, you know Steve."

 _No._ You _know Steve_ , she thought. Maybe it was her insecurities talking, but as hard as she'd tried to get close to Steve, she'd always messed up in some small (or large) way. Sam just _got_ Steve though.

***

Steve had spent the better part of two hours on the phone to various people at Trenton Psychiatric Hospital when Natasha strode into Sam's living room. He was currently on hold again. It was surprising how tiring it was calling people and talking to them over the phone. It would certainly have been more effective to just waltz into the place wearing his uniform and shield and demanding answers, he thought. But there was no way he was rushing off somewhere Bucky likely wasn't headed for.

"Any news on Bucky's location?" Steve asked immediately. 

"Hey Steve," Natasha said.

Steve stared at her with his mouth slightly open for a second before letting out a short breath and hanging his head. "It's been a long day."

"So I hear." Natasha sat down next to him. "Anyone interesting on the other end of the line?"

Steve dramatically sucked his breath in through his teeth. "A woman named Joyce, actually. Not sure she's my type though. Although she did promise to put me through to someone who might be able to get me information, so that's a positive."

"Information on what?" Natasha asked. "And you really should think about calling Sharon."

"Peggy mentioned a... I guess you call them psychiatric hospitals these days. She thinks Bucky was kept there for a while."

Natasha shrugged. "Okay, so that could be useful. But you know who works for the CIA and therefore has the tools to find Barnes?"

Steve stared at her. The tinny music coming through the phone line was distracting — he hung up. "You?" he asked eventually, projecting his uncertainty into his voice on purpose. 

At that Natasha burst out laughing. "Hell no, Rogers. I'm not making the same mistake a third time. Seriously," she said once she'd calmed down, a smile on her lips. "You could give Sharon a call."


	19. Chapter 19

Natasha crossed her arms defensively. "Sharon's a very good spy."

"Did she take the room opposite Buck's?" Steve deadpanned. 

"Hilarious." Nat tilting her body towards his as if about to share a secret. "She was only doing her job, you know."

"What's she up to these days?"

"Still a spy. Works for the CIA."

Steve chewed his lower lip. "She didn't tell the CIA that Bucky was staying in that hotel. They would've stormed the hotel if they'd known. Right?"

"Maybe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe they're tracking his movements right now."

Steve's felt the skin all over his body flush hot as his heart thumped against his sternum. "Give me her number now!"

Natasha didn't grin victoriously and Steve could only imagine how much willpower that required on her part. He was grateful though, because he was in no mood to mess around. If the CIA caught Bucky... 

"Use my phone, it's secure," she said. 

Steve did as instructed and put the call on loudspeaker. 

After a couple of seconds the dialing tone stopped. _Hello? May I ask who's calling?_

She hadn't given her name, but it was definitely Kate... no _Sharon_. Although her voice sounded flatter over the phone it was recognizably the same tone with which she'd greeted him in the hallway almost every second day. Looking back, they had bumped into each other suspiciously often. 

_Who is this?_

"Hey neighbor." It didn't come out as smooth as he'd intended; it still rankled him that he'd been spied on in his own apartment. Well, that's what he told himself at least. He'd finally been working on getting over Peggy by allowing himself to fall for someone else—a kind, dedicated nurse—only to discover that the person he'd fallen for was fictitious, nothing more than a role being played by an undercover spy. He was well aware that it wasn't her fault that he'd fallen for "Kate", but it still stung.

 _Captain,_ she said, each syllable business-crisp. _What can I do for you?_

Steve wetted his lips. "Natasha said you'd tracked down the hotel my friend was staying in. Does the CIA know? Do you still have eyes on his movements?"

_'Friend'? I know who he is, Captain, no need to play games._

"Does the CIA know?"

_I didn't let them know, as a favor. Because Director Fury was shot in your apartment, right in front of you. I get you want to be the one to take down the shooter, but what I'm getting from this call is that you didn't apprehend him. Captain, if he got away—_

"Agent!" He had to stop her talking. "It's... complicated." He had to _convince_ her. He could lie or feed her half-truths, because if she was going to risk her job—and probably her liberty—helping him, helping Bucky, then she deserved to know the truth. So the question was whether he trusted her or not. 

He looked at Natasha, who gave him a curt nod. 

Right. 

"He _is_ my friend," Steve began his explanation. It wasn't until he reached the end of the tale that he revealed Bucky's name to her though. When he did he could hear the sharp in-take of breath on the other end of the phone. 

_I see,_ she said, and Steve immediately felt a wave of relief wash over him. 

"Can you help?" he asked. 

_I'll see what I can do._

"Thank you, I _really_ appreciate it."

"Don't thank me yet," she replied, but he could hear the smile in her voice. "Hold the line."

Now Natasha finally let a small victorious smile play across her lips. "Told you she was nice," Natasha said. 

Steve sighed. Maybe she was, he thought, but he really didn't have time to think about that now. It simply wasn't important, not when compared to his need to find Bucky.

_Captain?_

"Yeah?"

_This might be trickier than I anticipated. I can do it, I think. But he left the area a while ago so I'll need to involve the CIA. And they will take him into custody. You'll know he's safe, that everyone else is also safe, and I can arrange for you to talk to him._

He felt the bile thicken in his stomach. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

" _Steve_ ," Natasha hissed. 

He let the breath out. "Can I think about it?" he asked through clenched teeth. 

_You think you can pick up the trail on your own?_

"I'll find him," Steve said, though he didn't sound even half a sure as he felt, and he didn't feel particularly confident. 

_Call me back within the hour._

"Okay, will do."

As soon as he hung up he felt Natasha's gaze piercing him. She didn't need to say anything, he already knew what she was going to say—and she knew that all she had to do was _look_ at him. Steve wasn't one to back away from a fight, so he glared back. 

"Is this a bad time to interrupt?" Sam asked as he entered the room, looking between the two of them. "I only caught a bit of that conversation," he continued when neither of them answered. "Steve?"

"I don't want to tell you what to do, Steve. But please think it over carefully," Natasha said, shutting down any reply he might have given Sam. Then she turned to Sam. "The Winter Soldier has gone off the grid, he doesn't want to be found. He might hide for good now, never to be seen again. My contact can track the Winter Soldier, but only by involving the CIA. This might be our last ever chance to find him."

Truth be told Steve had only told Sharon he'd think about it because he knew that was what Natasha wanted him to say and being hasty had meant he'd missed his chance to see Bucky at his hotel. Natasha's words tore at him though. It was completely selfish. Bucky didn't want to be found, and the very last thing he needed was to be on the CIA's radar, but _damnit_... the idea that his very last ever interaction with Bucky had been in the Smithsonian... it made him feel like his heart was being torn to shreds. He needed Bucky to know that he believed in him, didn't blame him for everything Hydra had made him do. Things couldn't just end like _this_ , not after all they had been through together. How was he meant to go on living knowing that it all ended with Bucky telling him that he'd willingly joined Hydra and that he'd just... sat there, tears streaming down his face, doubt in Bucky written all over it. 

"Hey Steve, how 'bout Natasha and I give you a bit of space? Take your time thinking it over." Sam motioned for Natasha to get up. "There's a Dunkin' Donuts at the end of the block. Fancy a coffee?"

Steve shot him a grateful look, but couldn't even bring himself to smile. He barely heard them get ready and leave. His mind had gone blank in its effort to put off making a decision. It all felt too much, his chest hurt, and his fingers felt itchy and numb.


	20. Chapter 20

Steve had exactly one hour before he had to give Sharon an answer. And Bucky's trail was getting colder with every passing minute. An hour was generous, really—the longer he waited, the higher the chance was that he'd never see Bucky again. Nat and Sam would probably be back soon with their coffees from Dunkin' Donuts. 

Steve paced around Sam's living room, chewing on his bottom lip. Eventually pacing wasn't enough and he needed to do something. _Anything_. His heart fluttered in his chest. He stalked to the small desk in the room, on top of which was Bucky's letter. He was too nervous to sit down on the desk's chair, but he read over the letter again, even though he knew it off by heart. It was clear from the letter what Bucky wanted. He didn't want to be found by Steve, let alone by the CIA. 

Steve crumpled up the letter in his fist. Without the CIA he might never see Bucky again, but Bucky didn't appear to be a danger to others. There really was no way he could ever live with himself if he set the CIA on Bucky. Steve hated his options: CIA or losing Bucky forever. 

He banged his fist down on the table so hard he heard the wood frame crack. Surely there was something else he could do? 

Outside he could hear a car pull up to Sam's place. A quick glance out the window confirmed it was Nat and Sam. He leant on the window ledge, back to the room's door, and closed his eyes. Deep breaths in and out.

Less than a minute later Nat gently knocked on his door and let herself in. Steve remained as he was, waiting for her to say something; when she didn't, he eventually turned round to face her. 

Natasha seemed to be studying him. Then she let out a small sigh of defeat and relaxed her posture. 

"That's a 'no' then," she said. 

Steve placed his hands on his hips and studied his feet for a moment. When he lifted his gaze again to meet hers he gave a sharp nod. 

"I'm going to clear his name. That's my goal now."

He had expected her to react with an eye roll or a raised eyebrow on an otherwise perfect poker face. Instead she surprised him with a small smile. 

"You're a good friend," she said and opened the door wider, beckoning him back into the living room. 

Steve returned a brittle smile—it was hard to ignore the lead weight settling in his stomach at the thought that he might have lost Bucky for good.

***

Bucky was making sandwiches for himself and Becca. He'd only been here two days and he already knew his way around the kitchen as if he'd lived there years. He reminded himself that it wasn't exactly rocket science—the plates were in the cupboard above the microwave (which heated up food as if by magic, very swell piece of tech) and the cutlery in the first drawer to the left of the sink. Becca was busy looking through the cupboards on the other side of the kitchen for some foil-packaged cookies she kept 'for emergencies'.

"What was our place like? Mine and Steve's?" Bucky asked into the comfortable silence.

Becca chuckled in reply.

"What?" Bucky turned around, frowning.

"You keep asking questions about Steve."

Bucky sighed. He picked up a knife with his left hand and started buttering the bread in front of him. "I... I wanna know more about him. Only met him once, you know? But I researched him, borrowed library books, bought my own biographies on him... wrote notes." 

A knob of butter fell off the tip of the knife and onto the fingers of his left hand. He ignored it. 

"And... I was in love with him? Just can't get that out of my head!" He said it calmly, but he could feel his face heating up.

Becca closed the cupboard, clearly abandoning her search for cookies, and walked over to him. "Maybe you should contact him?"

Bucky's shoulders tensed. He shook his head. "I told him I joined Hydra. That I was a Nazi-spy. And I can't prove I wasn't."

"Maybe you'll never be able to prove what happened, but who you are now, that's what'll matter to Steve. And I think he'll trust you about your past too."

Bucky stared at the now transparent, molten butter as it seeped into his metal joints. Like blood always used to, he thought. He studied the light reflecting off it. He didn't remember studying his metal hand after punching Steve's face. Had there been blood on his hand then? If he called Steve, he could actually explain himself and present what little evidence he had that he wasn't Hydra. Maybe Steve would forgive him... or maybe he would hand him over to the authorities. 

He had a lot to gain by contacting Steve, but... he didn't want to risk losing the chance to make more sandwiches with Becca.

He was jerked out of his thoughts by Becca's age-flecked fingers curling around his flesh wrist. 

"Before the serum... I know you don't remember him," Becca said, "but he was... well, a lot of people did think he probably was the kind of guy to, you know... be with men."

Bucky's eyes widened. "I wasn't thinking of telling him _that_!"

Becca simply shrugged her shoulders. "If there still an ounce of the little Stevie Rogers I knew inside him, he'll wanna talk to you. He wouldn't believe you were Hydra. And you know... as I said. Maybe..."

"You saw the journal! I was terrified of telling him!"

"He was always such a contrarian. People judging him based on his looks alone? That would have rankled him no end."

Bucky wiped the butter off his fingers with a paper tissue. His legs felt jittery—reading about Steve was clearly no substitute to actually meeting the man himself. He wasn't sure the risk of ending up in jail was really worth it, but his mind couldn't let go of Steve, that much was clear. And what about his heart? Did he... could he, realistically, love a man he only remembered meeting once? The way his heart was pounding in his chest suggested he could.


	21. Chapter 21

Getting hold of Steve was relatively straight forward. Becca had offered to make the right requests—being his sister, someone would have eventually given her Steve's contact details. But then Steve would've know where he was staying and he wasn't ready to give that away just yet. Instead he'd thought back to LaShonda and the other vets in DC. He knew he couldn't just call up the Washing DC VA office and ask to speak to Captain America, but some people there were clearly in contact with Steve. It was still risky, but he could get across town by bus and then make all the calls from a burner phone far away from Becca's place. 

It didn't take long to buy a phone and only a day later he was sitting on a park bench an hour's bus ride away from Becca's. The wind whipped his hair into tangles as the leaves danced in swirls on the ground. Bucky breathed in the fresh air and looked up at the open sky. Vast and blue and no matter what happened, that wouldn't change. He tried to hold onto that thought as he took deep breaths. 

A quarter of an hour later someone finally connected him to one Samuel Wilson. He didn't have to wait much longer for Wilson to pass him onto Steve.

_Bucky?_

He was shocked by how quickly his body reacted to Steve's voice. His tongue suddenly felt heavy and his palms sweaty. 

"Yeah, it's me."

_It's good to hear your voice._

Bucky wasn't prepared to _hear_ Steve smile, but it was there in his tone of voice: the man on the other end of the line was very obviously grinning. 

When Bucky didn't reply immediately, Steve continued. 

_Where are you?_

Again, Bucky remained silent. He didn't want to tell Steve.

_Are you okay?_ The smile was gone now, the question laced with concern.

"Yeah. I'm okay."

_Good,_ Steve replied. _Buck?_

"Yeah?"

_I’m real glad you called._

“You’d forgive a traitor?” Bucky wasn't sure anymore that he was one, but he had no proof and he needed to know what Steve was thinking.

_I don't think you had a choice._

Bucky’s throat felt dry suddenly. “You sure?”

_Yeah, I'm sure. You'd never join Hydra of your own free will. I think you were brainwashed._

“Got any leads?”

_A couple,_ Steve replied. _I'm gonna prove your innocence._

Bucky took a shaky breath. “I'd like to know what happened to me, what I did.”

_What do you remember?_

“Nothing,” Bucky huffed.

_But you remember me?_

For a moment Bucky hesitated, but it would do no good to lie or to sugar coat the truth. “No. I've read books, newspapers, and my diary. But I don't remember anything. Not before the war, not after the war, not growing up, not mum, dad, and Becca. I don't even remember that fight on the freeway. I remember the fight on the Helicarrier though,” he finished quietly. 

_Oh._

“Yeah.” 

For a while neither said anything. Bucky felt the full weight of what his memory loss truly entailed crushing his heart. He was an empty husk.

_Do you wanna meet up?_ Steve asked

He suddenly wanted to. He wanted Steve to fill the blank space that was his past. The thought was ridiculous and he knew it, but in that moment it didn't matter, the only thing that did was meeting Steve face-to-face.

“When I left DC… there was a diner off a freeway. Let's meet there.”

They discussed the details, agreed a date and time, and then the call was over. 

The wind started to pick up. He was alone on a park bench, watching the leaves dance in the wind. Once upon a time that was him, he thought. He used to be leaf, thrown here and there by strong currents and outside forces. 

He checked his phone—the next bus would arrive in ten minutes. Best get a move on so he didn't miss it. His travel bag wouldn't pack itself.

***

Nat and Sam had both been there when Steve had taken the phone call—and they'd been cautiously optimistic about his plan to meet up with Bucky.

"You're Captain America," Sam had said. "So I'm sure you can look after yourself, but just... be smart about this. It could be a trap."

Natasha had nodded in agreement before turning her large eyes on Steve. "We'll come with. In fact, we should go now and scout out the area so we can observe you guys from a distance. If your meeting with Barnes turns ugly we'll be close by."

Steve couldn't really argue with that plan. And so they'd packed quickly and set off. They decided to set up camp in a motel next to the diner and formulate their plan there. They agreed it was best they get separate rooms next to each other. Now they were all sitting around a small table in Nat's room and were going over the plan. 

Nat and Sam would get up early and run security. They'd check the parking lot for suspicious activity and if everything went well they would occupy one of the rickety outdoor tables that were set up each day outside a mobile van serving coffee to tired commuters. From there they would have a good view of any of the diner's window-seat tables.

"I wish this wasn't necessary," Steve grumbled.

They'd spent half an hour discussing whether to make a table reservation at the diner or not—in the end deciding that it wasn't the kind of place anyone would usually make a reservation at, let alone one at 10 am on a Tuesday, so it would only draw attention if they did. It was Steve's job to make sure him and Bucky sat at a table by the window, preferably the one closest to the exit.

"You agreed that it was good to be cautious," Nat responded. 

"I know!" Steve rubbed his face with his hands. "But it just feels like a waste of time. Nat, you finally managed to make a connection with a potential informant in Trenton, and instead of following up on that, we're discussing coffee and seating arrangements!"

"Dude, the informant and the evidence at the hospital in Trenton isn't going anywhere," Sam cut in. "Nat's contact didn't want to say much over the phone, we can't do much without going to Trenton." Sam got up. "But you're right, we've prepared enough. Let's get some shut-eye."

Steve raised his right eyebrow slightly and tilted his head to one side.

Sam placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "Try and get some sleep. I know I probably wouldn't be able to either if I were in your shoes, but even if you can't give your mind much of a rest, your body may appreciate it."

Steve responded with a half-smile. "Will do my best."


	22. Chapter 22

Bucky had known there was a motel next to the diner, but he'd also anticipated Steve taking a room in that motel, so he'd stayed overnight in another one on the way. Still, he arrived outside the diner a good hour early. It wasn't busy, but it wasn't deserted either—families and commuters alike were having breakfast. 

He thought back to his last attempt to eat at a diner and how he'd ended up having a flashback. The idea of meeting Steve in such a public place made his skin break out in a cold sweat. He paced around the outside perimeter of the diner twice before changing track and heading for the motel. He had no idea if Steve was there and even if he was, he didn't know what name he'd checked himself in under. Still, he found himself propelled toward the front desk and suddenly he knew what to say, how to make up a generic nick-name, give a description, and invent some scenario about him having had his cell phone stolen. He even pulled his burner phone out of his pocket, saying: "Stuck with this brick for now. It's like I'm back in the 90s!"

The woman laughed and told him Steve's room number. 

And that was it. He felt his head buzzing and as he made his way toward Steve's room—it felt like he was walking on clouds. What had just happened? He shook his head sharply to tried and clear it. It had been as if someone or something else had taken over his body. His heart was beating fast. It had happened during the fight with Rumlow too, but there he had dismissed it as muscle memory. This was yet more evidence that he had retained some types of memory though... his brain wasn't a blank slate. He could talk, drive a car... take a gun apart to clean it—all stuff he'd learnt in his past life. All complex tasks requiring thought and some kind of memory. Clearly taking on a fake persona to obtain information he really needed was yet one more skill set he had that was as automatic as breathing. It was disconcerting. 

He stood outside Steve's door for a few minutes, just staring at it, willing his heart to slow down. Is that what his obsession with Steve was? Something stuck in his mind from his previous life that hadn't been lost along with his biographical memories? If so, then it was hard not to believe his sister: he'd been (was?) in love with Steve.

The sound of a door opening—likely the bathroom door in Steve’s room—brought his attention back to the situation at hand. He didn’t even let himself take a deep breath before knocking. 

It seemed like an eternity until Steve finally opened the door. Water droplets from his freshly washed hair left shimmering paths down his exposed chest and stomach. 

At least he'd shoved on some pants before getting the door, Bucky thought. 

He dragged his eyes up to Steve’s surprised looking face. 

“Bit early, isn't it?” Steve leant against the door jamb, the surprise on his face being replaced by a small, reserved smile.

No, not ‘reserved’, Bucky realized, Steve was nervous. 

“Lots of people in the diner,” Bucky mumbled. “I still wanna go, just… wanted to meet you away from everyone first.”

Steve took a quick step backward. “Come in, I'm just gonna put on a shirt.”

Bucky followed Steve's retreating back and closed the door behind them. The curtains were orange, bathing the room in a warm, muted glow. Bucky stayed near the door, while Steve walked around the bed. He didn't turn around as he put on a shirt. 

“This must be weird for you, I know,” Bucky said. “You've known me since your childhood, but for me this is our first real meeting.”

Steve turned to face him again. Bucky had thought Steve was likely upset, so the sheer amount of strength and determination in Steve’s eyes caught Bucky off guard.

“I’m just glad you’re okay, Bucky.” 

Then Steve broke eye contact again and pulled his brows together. “Bucky’s okay, right?”

"Yup, that's my name!"

Steve's shoulder sagged a little in relief. 

"I didn't remember it, but I read a lot of books," Bucky clarified.

"What sort of books?"

"Mostly history."

Steve grimaced. 

"They don't write about the real you?" Bucky guessed.

"Yeah, people have a way of twisting history depending on their own experiences or agenda."

Bucky found himself nodding in agreement. 

"So, you want to make use the primary source?" Steve offered, raising his eyebrows. "I can try to fill in the gaps over breakfast."

"Sounds great!" Now the ice was broken he found himself keen to escape standing around awkwardly in the motel room. Food sounded good too and if he had some sort of flashback... at least Steve was there to help put whatever he remembered in context. He wouldn't have to deal with it all alone.


	23. Chapter 23

They ate so much—they started with bacon, eggs, pancakes, and toast and when their server cleared the table, they ordered burgers. 

Bucky's cheeks hurt from how much he'd been grinning and laughing. Steve had recounted tale after tale of their ridiculous Brooklyn adventures. It was clear that there was a lot he was leaving out when recounting their shared youth—there was very little mention of Steve's ill health, for example. Steve's goal clearly wasn't so much to fill in the gaps in Bucky's knowledge as to make Bucky laugh. Neither the food nor was Steve was saying had caused any of his own memories to resurface though. While a small part of him was disappointed, he was mostly grateful: the last thing he wanted was to ruin this meal by "acting odd". 

“Sounds like you were a trouble maker,” Bucky stated, then grabbed Steve's coke and started drinking it as his was empty. 

As soon as he'd taken a sip from it he froze. What was he _doing_? So much for acting like a normal human being.

“It’s okay,” Steve said, voice thick. “You always used to do that.”

Bucky placed the glass back in front of Steve.

“It’s happened before,” Bucky explained, rubbing his metal wrist with his flesh fingers. “It feels weird, you know? Sometimes I do something and I have no idea _why_ or _how_.”

Steve gave him a sympathetic smile that made Bucky’s insides twist and his heart flutter.

“I've got another story, if you’re not sick of them already,” Steve offered.

“Go on!” Bucky answered, grateful for Steve's quiet acceptance and the way he was trying to distract Bucky from the uncomfortable admission. 

Steve leaned forward, leaning his elbows on the table. Bucky found himself already grinning in anticipation. It wasn't even about the tales anymore, but about how Steve spoke and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

“Well, once you caused so much trouble,” Steve began, a smirk on his face, “that we ended up being chased through the docks by a group of angry guys. Hid on a boat and then when it started to leave the harbor we had to jump overboard and swim to the nearest jetty. Our Sunday bests were soaking wet!”

“Sunday bests? But I'm Jewish, right?”

“Yeah, but the girl you were tryin' to impress wasn't—and she had a fella already. He was so angry!”

Bucky felt a twinge in his back on his left side. He leaned back in his seat and tried to relax his back muscles. 

“I asked her out on a date?” He asked uncertainly.

“Yeah, you were quite the ladies man.”

"Any significant relationships? Or just the occasional date?”

“You always had a date—or two! Often you'd try to get one for me two, so we could go on double dates. That never worked out. For me, that is. But yeah, you had a couple girlfriends who stuck around.”

Bucky nodded silently, how did this fit in with Becca’s interpretation of his diary?

“I can tell you about them if you want,” Steve continued softly, misinterpreting his reaction. "I didn't wanna make you sad."

If he had any recollection of them at all, or if they'd been mentioned in the history books... maybe he would ache for those forgotten memories. 

As it was, he didn't have any link to that part of his past, and Steve was sitting right across from him, making his heart beat faster every time he looked down, displaying his long, dark eyelashes. 

Steve’s smile was adorable. He tried to imagine how he'd feel about leaning across the table and kissing Steve’s lips. The thought definitely didn't repulse him, so that was a start. _Actually_ , yeah, he could most definitely imagine himself doing that. His throat suddenly felt dry and his pants suddenly felt a hell of a lot tighter. He scooted forward to hide his lap under the table. Although his body had never reacted that way before, he _knew_ what it meant, the same way he knew what it meant when someone blushed. The novelty of it still felt overwhelming though.

Quickly he cast his eyes around for their server who was meant to be bringing them their burgers. Anything to stop himself thinking about Steve’s mouth. Their server wasn't anywhere to be seen, however. His eyes landed on the glass of coke on the table in front of Steve.

"What was my favorite drink?" he asked. 

To his relief Steve had a lot of thoughts on the topic, from what he thought Bucky's favorite flavor of milkshake was to his preferred brand of beer. Bucky tried to block out the monologue, while doing his best to pretend to be an attentive listener. He needed to think, damnit! He was clearly gone for Steve, and it had happened so fast—it was looking likely that Becca was right about his past self secretly pining away for his best friend, regardless of him being "a ladies man".

His stomach felt like it was cramping. If that was true... then what about all the warnings in his diary that Steve would reject him and never talk to him again if he ever found out? 

When the burgers arrived, they tasted like cardboard in his mouth. Steve seemed to have picked up on his mood and kept shooting him worried glances. Instead of keeping up the conversation, Steve seemed to get lost in his own mind too at times, often looking out the window. 

Bucky had no idea how had he apparently spent years living like this: wanting Steve, but having to keep his distance. It was torture. Surely it would be better to know? Even if the answer was "no". Even if Steve never talked to him again! 

"You okay?" Steve asked. 

"Um." Bucky pushed his half-finished plate of food to one side. "I think I'm ready to go."

He stared at the food, his skin prickling oddly at the thought of wasting it. 

"I can ask them to pack it up to go," Steve volunteered. 

Bucky raised a questioning eyebrow.

Steve huffed. "The Depression is in our bones. People today can be so wasteful with food. Makes my skin crawl sometimes."

Steve insisted on paying and Bucky didn't complain.


End file.
